


Sole Mates

by Tor_Raptor



Series: Sole Mates [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Backstory, Amputation, Anxiety, Bees, Brotherly Love, Cancer, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Realism, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nail Polish, No Drug Abuse, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthetics, Rehabilitation, Self Esteem, Socks, Surgery, badinage, hearing loss, lots of prequel potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 99,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: He hates the stump. Not just for the obvious physical hassle and disability, but for everything it represents. He is less than whole, a mere part of a man. It represents everything he has lost in the rough course of his lifetime, a battle he ultimately lost.What will it take for him to finally accept it?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here! I've been hyping this story for far too long; it's about time I actually get around to posting it. For those of you that have read my earlier work 'Fragile,' I'm confident you will find this enjoyable, and will be able to tolerate the level of medical realism utilized. They're about on par with each other when it comes to that sort of thing.
> 
> This story deals heavily with amputation, including the many physical, mental, and emotional aspects that go along with it. I know the amputee community is vast and diverse, and by no means am I attempting to include myself in that group or pretend I have the experience to relate properly. This is a fictional story, but of course you already knew that. Just because I wrote it does not mean I necessarily agree with all of the sentiments expressed by characters with different viewpoints and opinions.
> 
> With that disclaimer aside, here is Sole Mates.

He hates the stump. Not just for the obvious physical hassle and disability, but for everything it represents. He is less than whole, a mere part of a man. It represents everything he has lost in the rough course of his lifetime, a battle he ultimately lost.

He often wishes he could get rid of it, but that, of course, would only result in another stump. He wants to avoid looking at it altogether, but if he has any hope of getting out of bed in the morning, he must. Sometimes he'll wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, and expect to place both feet on the floor to stand up as he did for the majority of his life, only to be reminded of his brokenness when only five toes brush the floor.

His gaze falls on the pair of crutches in the corner. They are his constant companions, basically permanent extensions of his arms at this point. He hates them too, though he couldn't do much of anything without them. They're not even traditional crutches—no, those are for the temporarily incapacitated, the sprained ankles, broken tibias, and knee injuries. His wrap around his forearms like handcuffs, tethering him out of reach of independence.

One day, he may be rid of them, but that day is far off and hazy. And of course, they will merely be replaced by inorganic and unnatural materials crudely shaped to fill in the missing piece. He's not sure which is worse, and he won't be until he's has the chance to experience both. It's a day he both awaits and dreads because, while it may enable him to regain some of his old abilities, it will remind him of the permanence of this injury.

He remembers days when he didn't think twice about standing or walking and wonders how he could've ever taken that for granted. He wants to visit himself of ten years ago and slap him for being so insolent, to tell him to treasure the life he leads because it won't last forever. It's ripped from underneath him and he's forced to scramble for a handhold, a foothold, anything to prevent him from falling off the face of the Earth.

He finds it amazing how much one event can affect one's fate. One single thing can set off a chain reaction to completely and utterly change the course of one's life. If it hadn't been for that one unfortunate circumstance, that one misstep, he might still be bipedal. He might still be able to move from his bedroom to the bathroom without hopping along like a pogo stick, clinging to the wall for balance because he can't be bothered to stop and grab his crutches for such a short trip.

Just about the only upside: his remaining leg is inhumanly strong. And his arms aren't far behind. He's forced them to bear much more weight than they're accustomed to, and they've bulked up to compensate. Amputation is also a quick and effective weight loss strategy; legs are heavy.

But he wouldn't wish this on anybody, not even those he thoroughly despises. To lose his independence entirely, to rely on others for his most basic needs, it's the worst punishment he can dream of. It trumps the physical agony any day. The pain he could bear again if he had to, but the mental anguish of knowing he'll never be whole again, that this is entirely irreversible, that's what hurts the most. Sometimes he think he'd prefer it if he had just died.

The stares just make everything worse, so he avoids going out in public unless it's absolutely necessary. He knows people try their best, but they just can't help but look and wonder just how he ended up like this. Maybe he should just tape a sign to his back explaining the situation in order to satisfy their curiosity. Nobody ever asks him about it because they consider that rude, but honestly he'd prefer if they were up front about it instead of sneaking furtive glances. He'd be more than happy to explain, but instead he simply tries not to make eye contact with them while they're trying to be subtle. Nothing is more awkward than meeting eyes with someone who's trying to ensure they're not caught looking.

The only thing keeping him going is the promise of a new normal on the horizon. If it weren't for that hope, he might just give up and end it here and now. But he clings to the idea that one day, after a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, he will once again be able to walk the streets without garnering the glances of every passerby he encounters. Once he can hide it behind long trousers and a shoe, everything will be alright. At least, he hopes so.

If there's one thing he's learned in the course of his life, it's that nothing's ever certain.


	2. Toes

Sherlock wiggled his toes. He counted them: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He did the same with his fingers, finding all ten in their proper places. Two thumbs, two index, two middle, two ring, and two pinkies. Exactly as it should be. Toes didn't have proper titles like fingers did, and he wondered why that was the case. Maybe toes just weren't as important as fingers, and that was why they didn't have special names. They were just called the big toe, and littler toes numbers one through four. One and four made five; five and five made ten. Ten total fingers, and ten total toes.

At what point did evolution decide that five was the magic number? Many animals had five appendages at the end of each limb. Humans had five fingers per hand and five toes per foot. But other creatures had paws or hooves instead of hands like people did. Dogs only had four toes and a tiny dewclaw higher up on the forearm. And of the hoofed mammals, there were two primary orders: artiodactyla and perissodactyla, even-toed and odd-toed ungulates. Why did scientists decide that the number of toes was a defining factor in classification? Hippos look more like rhinos than they look like deer, yet it's deer that they're more closely related to, because they have even numbers of toes. Apparently, number of toes was far more important in the science world that other aspects of appearance.

Did that mean his scientific classification would change after tomorrow, when he dropped from ten toes to five, from even to odd?

This shouldn't have been Sherlock's primary concern, yet he couldn't get his mind off of it. Considering his scientific classification was less stressful than considering other aspects of his immediate future—that was a massive folder he had no desire to open. Sherlock flexed his feet and ran a hand over his head in an attempt to relax. It was a futile attempt, as relaxation would not be a possibility for the next few hours, likely the next few days, weeks, months, years. Basically, relaxation was out of the question entirely.

"Whatcha thinking 'bout?" Victor Trevor asked casually, waltzing into Sherlock's room unannounced. Sherlock had known Victor less than a year, but in this environment his choices for friends were incredibly limited. With nobody else to talk to, the two of them had grown close out of sheer necessity. At least, that's how it had begun. Since then, they'd spent enough time together to know each other's strongest passions and deepest secrets. Sherlock had never been one to make friends easily, but the situation had forced him to lower every single wall he'd ever built. Letting Victor in had made things an awful lot easier. They were there for each other through the toughest of times—and between the two of them, there were more than enough of those—and the best of times. Best being a relative term given their respective crappy situations. Sherlock considered Victor his best friend, and he rather thought Victor thought the same of him.

"Why don't you hazard a guess," Sherlock suggested dryly. There were very few things a person would think about on the eve of such an event. Victor plopped himself down dramatically in a chair next to the bed, the same one Mycroft usually occupied when he came to visit.

"Umm… the economy?" he joked. Sherlock huffed and shook his head. Victor was a year his senior, but he acted at least five years younger. Sometimes ten. "Don't tell me… the rapidly shrinking polar ice caps."

"They're not the only things that'll be rapidly shrinking," Sherlock muttered.

Victor ignored his obvious allusion to tomorrow's procedure, and instead continued messing around: "Did you build a shrink ray you didn't tell me about?"

"No. If I did, you'd be the first thing I downsize."

"That's cold, mate. What did I ever do to you to deserve being shrunk? And I don't mean by a psychiatrist."

"You burst in here without even knocking. What if I'd been doing something private?"

"Nothing about this place is private. My mum used to tell me there were certain things I should never allow strangers to touch. I come here, and next thing I know multiple strangers are handling all of it."

"I know you've never been a fan of catheterization, but at least you don't have testicular cancer," Sherlock reminded him.

"True. I'd sooner lose a leg any day," he remarked, reaching out a hand to pat Sherlock's bare foot. Sherlock rolled his eyes and wiggled his toes again. He knew Victor was just joking, but his offhand comment still made his stomach roil uncomfortably. Would he really rather lose a leg, or was he just saying that? Taking everything into consideration, which was worse? Well, it didn't matter; Sherlock didn't have a choice.

Victor changed his tone from jolly to serious and asked Sherlock again, "What are you thinking about?" Whenever something big was going on, Victor approached it the same way. He started off by making light of it to ease the tension, and then he got Sherlock to open up.

"Honestly? I was thinking about even-toed and odd-toed ungulates," Sherlock admitted.

"What the hell does that even mean? I'm pretty sure those aren't real words."

"Animals with a different number of toes on their hooves."

"Mate, why are you thinking about that? Last time I checked, you don't have hooves. Although, they might be able to give you some tomorrow if you ask nicely."

"I don't want hooves, Victor. It's just that they're classified differently based on their number of toes, and… I dunno, I guess it makes that number seem really important."

"There are many different numbers that are important," Victor explained. "Age is important. Weight is pretty important. Blood counts are very important. How many toes you have? Not very important in my book."

"I guess you're right," Sherlock sighed. He fidgeted a bit, easing himself upright to sit a little straighter. He wiggled his toes and flexed his feet, wincing as the movement in his right leg spiked the pain.

"You're freaking out, aren't you?"

"Yes, Victor, I'm freaking out!" Sherlock snapped. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"No. I don't want you to freak out, but I do want you to be honest with me. It's perfectly understandable to be freaking out. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Get me a nail clipper."

"Pardon?"

"A nail clipper. Fetch me one."

"Why?"

"You asked if you could help, and this is how. Get me a nail clipper."

"Fine, Mr. Bossy," he quipped. He stood up and left. Hopefully, he would return with a nail clipper, but Sherlock feared he might've driven him off completely. Sherlock sat up and rubbed his feet with his hands, counting his toes again. His phone buzzed with a familiar tone, and he reached over to the side table to grab it. He read a message from Mycroft, asking if Sherlock wanted him to bring anything when he came to visit later today. Sherlock told him no. He didn't think he could focus on much of anything right now, and afterwards he wouldn't be up for much. A few minutes later, Victor returned holding a clipper in his hand. He threw it at Sherlock, who barely managed to catch it.

"Thanks," Sherlock muttered gruffly.

"You're welcome," Victor replied. Sherlock sat up again and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Do you need to go somewhere?" Victor asked. "I can get your—"

"No," Sherlock cut him off. "Just slide that trash can over this way." Victor complied, and Sherlock reached down and started clipping the toenails of his left foot. He started at the smallest toe and worked his way inward.

"Why did you make such a fuss about clipping your toenails?" Victor asked nonchalantly. Sherlock glared at him, wondering how he could fail to realize the significance of such a seemingly mundane task. "Ohhh." Victor finally understood.

"Sorry to make such a fuss," Sherlock growled.

"I'm sorry. I should've realized. This is…"

"The last time I'll be able to do this completely," Sherlock finished his sentence for him as he moved onto his right foot. He went slowly, making sure he did a good job of it. After tomorrow, it would never again matter what these nails looked like, so he might as well make them nice.

"Do you want to paint them?" Victor asked.

"Not particularly."

"Aw, come one, it'll be fun! You can paint them, tell all your friends, and then say you hated it so much you decided to chop it off entirely."

"Very funny. But I think I'll pass."

"You should at least grab a Sharpie and write 'this one' on your shin or something. And you can write 'wrong one' on the other leg. People do that all the time."

"Exactly. It's hackneyed and boring."

"You're no fun," Victor whined, crossing his arms huffily. Sherlock sighed and massaged his temples to ward off the beginnings of a headache.

"You're just trying to live vicariously through me. You didn't exactly get the opportunity to scribble cute notes on your tumors."

"That would've been a tad difficult." Victor looked forlornly at the opposite wall, and Sherlock realized he owed it to his friend to at least let him have a little fun. He braced himself for the imminent excited outburst and relented to having his nails painted. "Really?" Victor sounded like he didn't believe it. Frankly, Sherlock himself didn't believe he'd just given in to this.

"Yes," he sighed. "Just not pink." Victor pumped his fist victoriously and dashed out of the room. Sherlock hoped it would take him a while to obtain nail polish so he could have a few minutes alone. He wiggled his toes and counted them again, admiring the neat lines of his freshly-trimmed toenails. He didn't have much time to dwell on his thoughts, as Victor returned far sooner than he expected. He held up a bottle of navy blue polish, and Sherlock nodded his head acceptingly. Victor smiled excitedly and Sherlock offered him his right foot. He watched as Victor unscrewed the cap and wiped off the excess polish on the inside edge of the bottle.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Sherlock inquired. Victor wielded the brush like an expert.

"Maybe."

"Where? How?"

"Sometimes I go down to peds and do the little girls' nails. They love it."

"That's sweet," Sherlock said. He himself never ventured over to the pediatric section of the oncology ward; it was too depressing. He'd gone exactly one time. He glanced around at all the children, each of whom looked a different stage of sick, and his brain reminded him that twenty percent of them would be dead in two years. He wished he'd never heard that particular fact on an advertisement for an American children's hospital.

"You should come with me some time," Victor suggested as he finished the second smallest toe.

"No thanks. Transportation is about to become a bit more difficult for me," Sherlock admitted. That wasn't the real reason, but he couldn't admit to Victor that he was horrified to go there.

"Fair enough. But as soon as the head honchos say you're allowed to be mobile, I'm insisting you get out of bed and go somewhere, even if it's just a few meters down the hallway. You'll go stir crazy if I don't."

"Okay. It's nice to know you'll be looking out for me. I can't imagine being stuck in this room with no more than Mycroft for company."

"Mycroft isn't that bad."

"He's insufferable."

"He's just worried about you, which is his job as your big brother."

"There's a difference between worrying and hovering."

"Fair enough. But I'd rather have a brother who hovers than one who simply abandons me." Sherlock considered this viewpoint and recognized that his sibling situation wasn't all that bad. It would be an awful lot worse if Mycroft were absent from his life. Without Mycroft, he'd have nobody but Victor.

"Finished," Victor announced, capping the nail polish with a flourish. Sherlock looked at his freshly painted toenails and flexed his foot again. "Let it dry before you touch it."

"I know how paint works," Sherlock insisted. "Though this is definitely the first time I've ever had it on my nails. And the last," he added.

"Hey, I got you to do it once. My life is complete."

"That was your life's aspiration? To paint my nails?"

"To get you to loosen up," Victor corrected. "Now that I've done that, I can die at peace."

"Victor, you're not going to die. Not soon, I mean."

"Yeah, yeah." They both knew that was a meaningless platitude. People in their community used it all the time, but nobody really believed it. They lived day to day, dose to dose, and then scan to scan. "You won't either, unless someone on your team has a bit too much to drink tonight." He mimed guzzling a beer, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. This only exacerbated his steadily building headache. "You okay?" Victor asked, suddenly serious again. The two of them were perfectly in tune with each other's pain levels. Of course, both had a ridiculously high tolerance after months and months of treatment, but they could still tell when something was a little more severe than bearable.

"Headache," Sherlock mumbled.

"Do you want me to get you something for it?"

"No, I'm fine. It's probably just stress."

"Hey," Victor stood up and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't stress. All you have to do is sleep; all the hard work is taken care of by other people."

"How reassuring," Sherlock grunted. That's exactly what was stressing him out, the notion that absolutely nothing would be under his control. He was completely at the mercy of other people, other people who could slip, shake, or sneeze at any given moment. The list of things that could go wrong was too long for him to even consider in one sitting.

"Take a deep breath," Victor instructed. That was easy for him to say; his life wasn't about to fundamentally change forever. "Some of us don't always have the luxury."

"After tomorrow," Sherlock began, remembering Victor's own condition. "You'll be able to beat me in a footrace."

"Not for very long. You'll be back on your foot before you know it."

"Feet," Sherlock corrected.

"I meant what I said," Victor reiterated.

"Not funny."

"It was actually rather funny."

"You're the worst."

"But I'm all you've got."

"Lucky me."

"Hey, you're not exactly the greatest company either," Victor said.

"I didn't ask you to come in here," Sherlock reminded him.

"But you're secretly glad I showed up."

"Am I?"

"If it weren't for me, you'd still be worrying about those even-toed undulations or whatever."

"Ungulates."

"That's what I said."

Their petty argument was interrupted by the arrival of a nurse. She knocked, and Sherlock eyed Victor to remind him to use his manners like her next time, and he invited her in. She looked somewhat startled to see Victor here, expecting to find Sherlock alone, but she quickly regained her composure. Victor saluted her as she began checking Sherlock's vitals. Though Sherlock tried to interrupt him, he snuck in a request for pain meds for his headache.

"You have a headache?" the nurse looked to Sherlock to confirm. He glared at Victor, but had to admit that it was getting definitely worse instead of better. He nodded meekly, rubbing his temples to try and ease the tension.

"I think it's just stress," Sherlock remarked. "I don't want any meds." As he said this, Victor nodded his head vehemently to reinforce Sherlock's point. The nurse pursed her lips; she knew what would transpire tomorrow, but then again so did practically everyone in this hospital.

"Do you want me to ask one of our therapists to come and talk to you?" she asked earnestly. Sherlock couldn't think of anything he'd want less.

"No." He managed to keep his tone polite, though he wanted to scoff at the mere idea.

"Are you sure? A lot of patients find it helpful, especially so close to a major surgery."

"Yes, I'm quite sure," he said tightly. "What I'd really like is some time alone." She nodded, finished up her checklist, and left him be. He breathed a sigh of relief at her departure. The nursing staff here was acceptable, acceptable being a relative term given that other people in general are idiots. Their absence always served to lower the average level of stupid in a room. In that respect, Victor and Sherlock managed to cancel each other out to a dead neutral.

Victor stood and patted Sherlock on the shoulder once again. He moved to the foot of the bed, gave his right foot a farewell squeeze, and departed without another word. "Thanks for stopping by," Sherlock said. It sounded a bit sarcastic, but he truly meant it. Fortunately, Victor recognized his sincerity. He paused just beyond the doorway to wish Sherlock good luck tomorrow. He hoped luck would have nothing to do with it.

He breathed a sigh of relief at finally being left alone. He loved Victor, but right now he just couldn't cope with such unbridled positivity. Sometimes he just needed to be depressed, and this was certainly one of those times. He wiggled his toes again, counting all ten. He managed half an hour alone before his sanctum of silence was breached by Mycroft's arrival.

"Good evening, brother mine," he greeted.

"Is it?" Sherlock grumbled. He thought he was having a rather miserable evening.

"Well, unfortunately it's better than tomorrow evening's going to be," Mycroft said bluntly.

"Speak for yourself, I'll be high as a kite," Sherlock sighed. He'd only recently learned of the glorious pain meds that one received after surgery; they were just about the only perk. He heard Mycroft sigh as he sat down in the chair Victor had recently vacated. Only then did he realize that Mycroft was not referring to how Sherlock's evening would go, but to his own. Tonight, they would both worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow, Sherlock would sleep through most of the day, and Mycroft would continue to worry for hours on end.

"'M sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"It's all right," Mycroft told him. "Is there anything I can get you?" He was in placating mode, Sherlock could tell. He always got like this when Sherlock's health was in jeopardy—which was pretty damn often. Sherlock referred to it as his 'mother hen complex,' a term which Mycroft highly disliked. In all honesty, Sherlock didn't hate his hovering as much as he pretended to.

"No thanks." There was very little that could be done for him at this point. A healthy, fully-functioning leg would be nice, but that was beyond even big brother Mycroft's power. If it were Victor asking, Sherlock would jokingly request one, but Mycroft didn't take well to humor, especially of the self-deprecating sort.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

They sat in silence, neither knowing quite what to say to comfort the other. Sherlock wiggled his toes again, and Mycroft's gaze flitted to his feet. "I see you've decorated a bit. Was this Victor's doing?"

"Yeah." Mycroft didn't entirely approve of his friendship with Victor, but he recognized that he could relate to Sherlock in ways no one else ever could. He was a crucial part of Sherlock's support system, and just about the only thing that made hospital stays bearable.

"How festive," he remarked.

"I'm not sure festive is the word I would use."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Ironic?" Sherlock wasn't really sure how he would describe it, but definitely not festive. He hadn't felt festive in over a year, and probably wouldn't for another year after tomorrow. He sighed and wiggled his toes yet again. He felt that he had to do it as often as possible while he still could.

Throughout the evening, Mycroft occasionally asked him if he needed anything, and the answer was always no. Once the clock struck six pm, snacks were no longer an option, not that Sherlock could stomach much of anything even if he tried. Usual visiting hours ended, but Mycroft wheedled his way into staying. With his position in the government, he could do just about anything anywhere with a few vague threats and a phone call. Despite himself, Sherlock was secretly glad to have him here. If he was alone tonight, this whirlwind of thoughts might drive him insane.

Regardless, he didn't get a wink of sleep that night. Just before midnight, Mycroft offered to request a sedative, but Sherlock refused. He knew that he should sleep, but if he did the time would elapse more quickly. He didn't want the next morning to dawn any sooner than it had to. These were his last hours of dual-leggedness, and he didn't want to waste them sleeping. He wiggled his toes or flexed his feet every few minutes, just to prove that he still could. He pulled up his gown to look at his right leg, and the impressive scar still there below his knee. When he first received it, he hated it. It was severe, and ugly, and horribly obvious. Now, he was finally getting rid of some of that scar, only to replace it with something ten times worse. A scar could be hidden with trousers; a stump was impossible to disguise.

Before he knew it, it was crunch time. It was D-Day. Hour zero. When the people came to take him away, Mycroft awoke from his sleep, snapping to attention. He was flustered at having been awoken, but managed to compose himself briefly, only to fall apart again. Mycroft was even more distraught than Sherlock, and he found himself comforting his older brother instead of the other way around. Sherlock reminded himself to thank Mycroft later; his distress gave Sherlock something to focus on other than his own fear.

"See you later," Sherlock promised. Mycroft wiped a single tear from his cheek, and held Sherlock's hand until the last possible second. Sherlock closed his eyes on the ride to the OR because being wheeled placed always made him dizzy and nauseous. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the surgical team he'd met a few days ago. Mycroft had approved of them, so Sherlock automatically trusted their competency. Yet he was still uncomfortable because he was lying down, and they were standing above them. The angle made them seem twice as tall as normal humans. Sherlock didn't like feeling small.

"Are we ready?" the surgeon, Dr. Whittaker, asked. Sherlock wanted to groan at his use of the royal 'we,' but forced himself to just nod instead. He was as ready as he'd ever be. He picked his head up to watch his navy blue toes wiggle one last time before submitting himself to their ministrations. Dr. Whittaker glanced at his toes and asked about the color.

"My friend insisted on painting them."

"I like it. It'll give us a more exciting view," he joked, and Sherlock huffed despite himself. He could appreciate a surgeon with a sense of humor. Someone who took himself too seriously was more prone to tensing up. Tensing up was one step away from messing up. The surgeon's comment also distracted him from the bustle around him, which would've made him even more antsy if he'd been focused on it.

Dr. Whittaker's face appeared above him once again, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off: "I know the drill. Count down from one hundred."

"Perfect. Go ahead." He didn't specify if Sherlock should count aloud, so he made the decision for him. He mouthed the words to the numbers, but didn't raise his voice loud enough to be heard. He felt the drugs being to pull him under around number seventy three. His eyes drifted closed, and he fought to keep them open, but he wasn't strong enough. He remembered reaching sixty before everything went black.


	3. Down a Foot

The first thing he heard was a hushed voice, piercing through the thick veil of unconsciousness like a pin through layers of fabric. He clung to that voice, using it to drag himself out from the depths. Slowly but surely, it came into focus, getting louder and louder as Sherlock grew closer and closer to waking. Soon, he was aware enough to take stock of the sensations around him.

The first thing he registered was that he couldn't feel anything from the waist down. Oh God, did they paralyze him? He knew he'd never walk easily or normally again after this, but he didn't consider that he might never walk again at all. Nobody had mentioned the possibility of paralysis, especially not in his good leg. What had gone wrong to render him in such a state? Quickly, he checked movement in both his arms, fortunately finding that they seemed to be in working order.

The voice that had drawn him from sleep suddenly ceased, and Sherlock froze, wondering what had happened to it. "Sherlock?" the voice called gently. He wanted to respond to it, but his throat hurt too much to even consider talking. Instead, he wrenched his eyes open. The brightness of the light stung, and he immediately closed them again. "Sherlock?" the voice repeated. This time, he was more careful and pried his eyelids open slowly.

He still couldn't feel half his body, and he panicked. He heard the quiet beeping in the background pick up speed and wondered what the hell was going on. He knew he was breathing faster and faster; his abused throat protested the extra work. "Sherlock, shhh," the voice was nearer now, and accompanied by a presence on the left side of his bed. He turned his head and found Mycroft standing next to him.

"It's okay," he soothed, grabbing hold of Sherlock's hand. "Shhh." Sherlock wanted to explain what was wrong, that the surgeons had screwed up and ruined both of his legs, but he couldn't do much more than whimper in distress. Nothing hurt, but he was scared and confused and it was the only outlet he could utilize in his current state. Mycroft placed his other hand on Sherlock's forehead and gently ran his fingers through the short hair that had only just started to grow in the past few weeks. Sherlock immediately calmed down and closed his eyes, feeling the tendrils of sleep once again creeping up on him.

"It'll all make more sense later," Mycroft whispered as Sherlock nodded off. He looked forward to waking up again when things would make more sense as Mycroft promised. He needed to know what had happened. Maybe he should stay awake and demand an explanation now, but he was so tired. He decided he could wait until after a nap.

~0~

When he next awoke, he registered two things: his throat no longer threatened to burst into flames, and he was still numb. Fortunately, Mycroft was still there by his side. In that moment, he was glad he had a hoverer for a brother.

"Hey Sherlock, how are you?" Mycroft asked sincerely. He pulled his chair closer so he could look Sherlock in the eye more easily.

"Where's…pain?" he stuttered. He wasn't sure that's what he meant to say, but those were the words to come out of his mouth. His throat still ached, but not so much that he refrained from speaking. Garnering information was more important than avoiding that discomfort right now.

"Where's the pain?" Mycroft repeated, obviously not understanding the question. Sherlock tried to look down at his legs, but found he didn't have the strength to raise his head high enough.

"'M numb," Sherlock explained blearily. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," Mycroft assured him. "They gave you an epidural to help with the pain." Ahh, so that explained the lack of sensation from his lower extremities. Mycroft stood and walked over to the foot of the bed. He told Sherlock to wiggle his toes, and affirmed that they were, in fact, moving, and not at all paralyzed. Sherlock hadn't even shared his concerns with Mycroft, but his older brother knew him well enough to deduce what was on his mind. "See? Just stopping the pain."

"Good," Sherlock managed. He wiggled his toes again. Oddly, he thought he felt his right toes moving too, though he knew they were no longer there. He furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft questioned.

"My foot… I can almost feel it," Sherlock explained. He frowned again and stopped trying to wiggle his toes.

"The doctors did say that phantom pain is rather common."

"Not pain. It's just… weird."

"It probably will be weird for quite a while. Your nerve endings will take a while to get used to not transmitting all the way down to your foot."

"Crazy." Sherlock tried again to wiggle his toes, and he felt as if his right were moving too. While Sherlock stared transfixed at his feet, Mycroft grabbed a cup from the side table and offered it to Sherlock. He accepted it, finding it full of ice chips. He placed one in his mouth, loving the feeling of the cool water dripping down his abused throat. He finished three of them before his stomach twisted oddly, so he stopped and returned the cup to the table.

A little while later, Dr. Whittaker himself made an appearance. He pulled up a chair, and Sherlock sensed an imminent long conversation. He hoped he could stay awake and alert enough to follow because he was genuinely curious about the details of his surgery and what would happen over the next days and weeks.

"Well, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Bad," Sherlock decided immediately.

"You're down a foot," the surgeon informed him. Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock managed a harsh laugh. His voice was still rough from intubation, but the ice chips had helped somewhat.

"Good news?" Sherlock asked.

"You still have your knee, which is monumental for mobility." Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief; there had been a chance that they couldn't save it. "As planned, we used a piece from your lower tibia, below where the tumor was, to make the remaining stump even longer." This was magnificent news; a longer stump would make every future step much easier. "However, some of the skin is stretched pretty thin, and we might need to go back and graft if it doesn't work out or if blood flow is compromised. We'll keep an eye on the site for the next few days and see what needs to happen."

"Okay," Sherlock exhaled. This was nothing he didn't expect. In fact, from what he was hearing, it couldn't have gone better.

"How do you feel?" the surgeon asked.

"Numb. I expected pain," he admitted.

"Well, once the epidural comes out, I'm afraid there will be a fair share of pain. But we will do everything we can to minimize it."

"Sounds great."

"Alright. Get some more rest, and we'll talk about next steps a bit later." Dr. Whittaker stood, nodded to Mycroft, and made his exit. Sherlock rubbed his tired eyes and wanted to turn onto his side, only to remember that he couldn't. Ugh. He hated sleeping on his back because it made him snore, but it seemed that would be the only option for a while. His exhaustion triumphed, and he was asleep in minutes.

~0~

When he woke up again, it wasn't Mycroft by his side, but Victor. Sherlock noticed he wore his oxygen today; he was supposed to wear it all the time, but he claimed he didn't need it and that the tubing always got caught on things.

"Hey Singlefoot," he teased. Sherlock wanted to go right back to sleep if this is what he would have to put up with, but he was too far past the post-anesthesia drowsiness to fall asleep so quickly after awakening.

"That's the best you've got?" As far as insulting nicknames went, it wasn't Victor's best work.

"No. I'm starting small and working my way up to the good ones," he replied with an evil grin. Sherlock fumbled around the side table for the bed's remote, but he was too late. Victor snatched it from him and threatened to fold him in half.

"Come on, I just wanted to sit up a bit," Sherlock complained. "I should've had that restraining order placed like Mycroft suggested."

"I'm just teasing." Victor tossed him the remote, and he rose from flat to reclining. This was the first time he'd sat up enough to get a good view of his lower half, and he almost wished he hadn't, for the sight was not a pretty one. What was left of his right leg was encased in bandages so thick it looked like a tree trunk. He scanned it from thigh to end, shuddering when it abruptly stopped far short of the length of his left. This was really his life now.

"Hey, you okay?" Victor asked. He must've seen the look of horror on Sherlock's face as he came to terms with the extent of his missing appendage.

"Yeah. It's just… this is the first time I've taken a good look at it. It's a little overwhelming."

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine what it's like to lose something so important. And I obviously can't relate to this super well, but I just want you to know I'm here for you."

"Thanks. That means a lot." Sherlock looked back at Victor, and recognized beneath his sincerity the look of burning curiosity. He was dying to ask a thousand questions, but was waiting until Sherlock was a little less solemn to bombard him. "What do you want to know?"

"Does it hurt?" Victor asked first. That was a boring question, one he'd already been asked by countless other people about countless other things. But he deigned to answer it for Victor's sake.

"No. The epidural is still in, so I'm pretty much numb from the waist down."

"Does that mean I can punch it, and you won't feel a thing?"

"Please don't. I'd hate to have to explain to Dr. Whittaker that all the stitches are torn because my friend decided to punch my stump just to test whether or not it would hurt me."

"I was just asking hypothetically, I wasn't actually considering punching it." Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. "Can I punch your good leg?" Victor then asked.

"No punching anything."

"Fine. Are you getting phantom pains? Does it feel like your leg is still there?"

"Yeah, it kinda feels like it's still there. When I wiggle my toes, it feels like my right ones are moving too. But I wouldn't call it pain." Sherlock remained still for a few minutes and catalogued the sensations that were currently assaulting his confused nerves. His non-existent leg felt like someone was gently tugging on the end of it, and somehow damp all at the same time. "Right now, when I don't move, it feels like someone's… pulling my leg." He pulled off the pun at the last second, earning himself a muffled snort from Victor.

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, it feels like someone's pulling on it. And it also feels wet for some reason."

"That's insane." Victor's eyes widened with interest at this new information. Sherlock didn't find it fascinating so much as he found it annoying. Victor looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but they were interrupted by another nurse. This time, she wasn't here looking for Sherlock, but for Victor.

"You, Mr. Trevor, have chemo," she announced, pointing at Victor. "Get yourself back to your room sharpish." Victor hung his head and stood up to leave. "And please stop pestering Mr. Holmes."

"He's not a pest, Nurse Anne," Sherlock assured her. She was one of several nurses whose names he knew. He'd been here often enough to get to know all the regulars. "I consider him more of a pet." Victor scowled at him, and Anne winked as she ushered him out of the room.

"Bye Sherlock," Victor called. "I'll be back after I'm finished throwing up." Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing all too well that Victor wouldn't be back for a while. After chemo, the nausea kept him practically bedridden for hours. They'd tried countless combinations of antiemetics, but none seemed any more effective than another.

Just before she closed the door behind her, Anne told Sherlock, "They'll be into change your bandages in a few minutes." He felt the blood drain from his face at the prospect. It was one thing when the stump was heavily wrapped and out of sight, now they were going to bring it out and inspect it. His palms started to sweat, and he wiped them on the sheets several times before the knock at the door eventually came.

"Come in," he squeaked, though part of him wanted to send them away. Dr. Whittaker and a male nurse whose name he couldn't recall entered slowly.

"How are you today Mr. Holmes?" the surgeon asked. Sherlock tried to keep his focus on him while the nurse started laying out supplies beside the bed, but it was so hard not to let his attention deviate towards the activity.

"As well as can be expected," he replied.

"Any pain?"

"No."

"Alright. We're planning to keep the epidural in for at least another day or so."

"Okay." Dr. Whittaker positioned himself on Sherlock's right, and Sherlock attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Are you a fainter?" the surgeon asked. Sherlock didn't think so, but then again he'd never been faced with something so likely to induce a dizzy spell. Since he didn't have a definitive answer, Sherlock shrugged. He hoped he wouldn't faint, as that would be incredibly embarrassing. He hated the fact he still had to lie flat; Dr. Whittaker and the nurse looked like giants above his head, giants about to expose his newest and greatest weakness.

"Okay, we're going to get started. Since you're still numb, it shouldn't hurt too much, but the change in sensation can be a bit daunting. Are you ready?" Sherlock nodded, biting his lip to keep from whimpering. "Do you want to see it at this stage?" Sherlock hadn't expected to be asked this question, but he knew exactly how to answer.

"No," he responded, shaking his head fervently.

"That's okay. So soon afterwards, it'll be pretty gnarly." The use of that word in reference to a part of him made Sherlock nauseous, and he swallowed again to quell the rising uneasiness. Swallowing while flat on one's back is more difficult than swallowing while upright, and Sherlock nearly choked. Fortunately, he managed not to break into a coughing fit and cause a scene. He wanted Dr. Whittaker in and out of here as fast as possible.

"Here we go," the surgeon announced as he began working. Sherlock went so far as to remove the pillow from beneath his head and place it over his face. He didn't want to risk opening his eyes and catching a glimpse of what used to be his leg once it was exposed. He didn't feel much of anything until they were down to the last few layers, then he felt the biting cold as the stump was finally exposed to air after spending so long heavily swathed. It was uncomfortable and nauseating and it was all Sherlock could do not to start panic-breathing into his pillow like one would do with a brown paper bag.

He felt the pressure of prodding touches as Dr. Whittaker examined his handiwork from all angles. Bile crept up his throat, but he forcefully swallowed it down. He should not be such a wimp about this. He'd have to get over himself at some point if he had any hope of recovering. This stump was now as much a part of him as his whole leg had been, and he'd have to get used to it. Next time they changed the bandages, he'd sneak a glimpse. He couldn't go his whole life without ever seeing it, and he had to start somewhere. To make matters worse, he could hear Dr. Whittaker muttering to himself, and he didn't sound happy.

His anxiety eased somewhat when he felt them start to wrap it again, and he relaxed the iron grip he'd had on the rail of the bed above his head. "All done," the surgeon announced, and just like that Sherlock's unease dissipated. He removed the pillow from his face and opened his eyes blearily. The look on the surgeon's face reinforced his fear that it wasn't all good news.

"There are a few spots that look a bit concerning. I'm going to give it until tomorrow afternoon, but if blood flow doesn't improve we'll have to go back in." Sherlock had been told this was a possible, even likely, eventuality, but that didn't lessen his disappointment. That would mean another trip under anesthesia and ultimately a longer stay in the hospital. Sherlock nodded in understanding, and watched the nurse pack up and dispose of the used bandages. Sherlock hazarded glance back down to his leg, relieved to find it looked exactly the same as before.

He tried to wiggle his toes and a jolt of pain shot up the stump into his hip. Maybe this was the beginning of the fabled phantom pains. He'd been told countless times that they were inevitable, but that didn't mean he was prepared for them. Normal pain, he was used to, but this was an entirely new battlefield that he'd never before tread on. Hopefully, he wasn't overwhelmed when the real onslaught began.


	4. Footloose

When he awoke the next morning, Mycroft was there. Victor was nowhere in sight, and Sherlock presumed he was still recovering from his latest dose of chemo. Mycroft looked him over disdainfully; evidently he knew what had transpired earlier that day.

"I heard what Dr. Whittaker said," he murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I knew it was a possibility, but I just hoped that something, some miniscule part of this, might go easily.

"None of this will be remotely close to easy, so it hardly matters if it's just that bit harder," Sherlock remarked.

"Yes, it does. I think you'll soon find a desire to jump on any opportunity for even a little respite."

"Your choice of words is quite apt." Mycroft hadn't even noticed the slip-up; Sherlock wouldn't be jumping on anything.

"My apologies. I'm afraid I haven't yet grown accustomed to…" he hesitated to finish the sentence.

"Having a little brother who's disabled," Sherlock finished. He heard Mycroft swallow, but his elder brother made no move to correct Sherlock's statement.

"Do you think you're up for eating anything?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject entirely. Sherlock wasn't, but he knew he wouldn't be allowed to refrain much longer. He nodded meekly, and Mycroft gestured to a tray that must've been left while he was still sleeping. Sherlock managed a few mouthfuls before he decided he'd had enough. Mycroft watched him closely, pursing his lips when Sherlock pushed the tray away sooner than he would've liked.

"Dr. Whittaker said he'd be in to check the site within the hour. He said they're thinking another surgery will be necessary."

"Yep." Mycroft sounded concerned at the prospect of Sherlock returning to the operating room, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care. He was already missing a leg; a little poking around was nothing. However, he knew another round of anesthesia would leave him feeling woozy and unfocused for another day at least. More than anything, he was looking forward to regaining his mental faculties when this was all over.

The two brothers sat in relative silence until Dr. Whittaker arrived with the same nurse from yesterday. Mycroft excused himself without a word. Sherlock figured Mycroft had even less desire to see the aftermath than he did. But when the surgeon asked if he wanted to see this time, Sherlock nodded affirmatively. If he saw it at this stage, every glimpse afterwards would be easier. If he kept putting it off, it would continue looming over his head. Dr. Whittaker asked the nurse, Matthew, to go and grab something, but Sherlock didn't catch what he requested.

He fixed his gaze on the corner of the room while Dr. Whittaker began removing bandages. He didn't want to watch it slowly revealed; it would be easier if he forced himself to look at it all at once. This time, the unpleasant sensations caused by the surgeon's ministrations were even worse. Though he was trying to be gentle, the site was so hypersensitive that Sherlock was forced to grit his teeth.

He felt the cold as the stump was revealed to the world again, and braced himself to raise his head to glance at it. "Are you sure? It's okay if you still don't want to," the surgeon assured him.

"Yes, I'm sure," Sherlock said weakly. He knew he sounded anything but sure, but he would push through with sheer force of will. The nurse and doctor exchanged a knowing glance, and he bent down to pick up whatever it was that he'd been sent for. Sherlock closed his eyes, counted down from three, and opened them again facing his right leg.

He instantly regretted it.

He'd imagined what it would look like countless times before in complete detail, but no dream could prepare him for the stark reality of losing a leg. His stomach protested, and there was no swallowing it down this time. The nurse was prepared—so that was what Whittaker had asked him to get—holding out an emesis basin just as Sherlock heaved. He slammed his eyes shut again and collapsed back again the pillow. That was the first time he'd vomited since his last dose of chemo, and it was just as unpleasant as he remembered.

But he was also glad he'd gotten it over with. Now, every time he looked at it, it would be better. Not only would the wounds themselves close up and heal, but he would begin to accept this unfortunate fact of his life.

"Are you alright?" Matthew questioned. Sherlock nodded, still keeping his eyes firmly shut. He continued to feel nauseous as Dr. Whittaker continued the examination, but fortunately he didn't retch again. He could tell without even seeing the expression on the surgeon's face that it wasn't good.

"I'm afraid some debridement is going to be necessary," he announced. "And afterwards, probably a skin graft." He briefly stepped outside and invited Mycroft back inside to discuss the procedure. The stump had been rewrapped, so both Holmes were able to open their eyes.

"Tomorrow, we'll remove all the dead skin and see what we have to work with. Hopefully, it's just the skin that's without adequate blood flow. If it goes any deeper, we might have to rethink some things."

That certainly didn't sound good. If Sherlock believed in such things, he would've prayed. As it was, he could only hope that it went no further than the skin.

"I also want to suggest that we remove your port while we're at it so you won't have to come back for removal later on." Sherlock's hand automatically drifted to the port site on his chest. It had been a part of him for almost a year now, but it still felt like a foreign object. He'd be elated to be rid of it.

"Perfect," he said. He might as well let them do it now; otherwise, they'd just have to do it later. This was him jumping on an opportunity to makes things even a little bit easier.

"Alright. Then we're done here. Try and get some sleep tonight." Dr. Whittaker and Matthew tidied up and left Sherlock with Mycroft. Sherlock didn't want to face his brother and explain what had happened, but he didn't have to. His brother knew everything.

"You looked, didn't you?" he observed. Sherlock nodded. "And…?"

"It literally made me sick."

"Oh Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"Nope, I don't want your pity. Believe me, when you see it for the first time and have a panic attack, I won't be pitying you."

"Fair enough. But I do commend you for facing it so soon. Were I in your shoes, I would avoid it until the last possible second."

"In my shoes? Mycroft, are you purposefully trying to make comments in poor taste?"

"No, I swear. They just slip out. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I find it rather amusing. In the next weeks, you and I will both have our fair share of blunders, whether social or physical. I probably won't be able to laugh much at my own, but yours are fair game."

"Alright," Mycroft conceded.

"How long do you think it will take?" Sherlock asked genuinely. He wanted to be prepared for however many hours of his life he would lose to unconsciousness tomorrow.

"Certainly nowhere near the eight hours it took them the other day."

"Eight?!" Sherlock was unaware of just how long it had taken them to free him of his mess of a leg and reconstruct what was left. He'd woken up too out of it to care what time it was. He shuddered to imagine poor Mycroft sitting in the waiting room all alone, waiting eight hours for news on a surgery that would alter his brother's entire life. It wasn't fair, not to either of them.

"Yes, eight hours. That's 480 minutes, or 28,800 seconds. Never have thirty thousand odd seconds passed so slowly." Mycroft hung his head and shuddered involuntarily. Sherlock didn't want to picture him waiting, mulling over countless possible complications and wondering if the next time he saw his brother would be on a mortuary slab. For once, Sherlock was content with his position; he'd much rather be the one on the table than the one left outside to fret.

With nothing better to say, Sherlock stated, "That must've sucked."

Mycroft chuckled at his use of such juvenile diction. "Yes, it did indeed 'suck.'"

~0~

Mycroft was right; the operation took hardly any time at all compared to the odyssey of the amputation. When he said goodbye to Mycroft, the anxiety level in the room was dramatically lower. He fell asleep easily, not even bothering to count down because he didn't need the consolation of the numbers' regularity.

Not long afterwards, he came to in his usual room, Mycroft by his side. "Are Mummy and Dad coming?" Sherlock inquired, once he'd regained his bearings enough to form a coherent sentence. Throughout the course of his illness, they'd dropped by as often as possible, but they were always so busy traveling and working. At least, that's what they said. It was no secret that they simply couldn't bear to see Sherlock like this, and frankly he couldn't blame them. He didn't want to be around himself for most of it, but obviously he'd had no choice.

"Tomorrow," Mycroft told him. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was excited or afraid to see them. His mother would undoubtedly fuss over him, calling him her 'poor boy' and whatnot, a none-too-enticing prospect. His father would hang back quietly and pretend not to look devastated at what had become of his son. No parent ever expected to give birth to what would become a monster of mutation, yet that was exactly what they'd gotten out of their youngest son.

Sherlock fingered the dressing on his chest where the port had been. He didn't miss it, not in the slightest. Accessing it had been painful every damn time no matter how experienced the nurse, and his hatred of it never lessened through nearly a year of treatment. To have it gone was a literal weight off—or out of—his chest.

"Mycroft, when can I go home?" he asked suddenly. He wasn't sure where the inquiry came from, since he hadn't much thought about it, but now it seemed immensely important. He didn't want to be here any longer. He wanted to get up and walk out like any man should be able to. He wanted to drive home, using his dominant foot on the pedals like he'd been taught as a teenager. But he didn't even have a dominant foot anymore.

When his brother didn't answer, Sherlock repeated his question: "When can I go home?"

"I don't know," he sighed. Sherlock could tell he was disappointed in himself for not knowing the answer, for not being able to console him. "I wish I knew, but I don't."

"But you know everything," Sherlock whined. When he was little, he could always rely on Mycroft to answer all his questions. Mummy and Dad refused sometimes, claiming he was too young, but Mycroft would tell him whatever he wanted to know without reservation. Sherlock wanted to return to that time, when he was young and naïve enough to think his elder brother omniscient. Now that he'd faced the adult world and the realities of the uncaring universe, he realized there were many, many things that he'd rather not know.

"While I wish I did, Sherlock, I don't know everything."

"You used to know everything."

"And you used to have two legs, yet look where we are." This comment didn't come from Mycroft—he would never be so blatant—but from Victor, who'd popped in without invitation once again.

"Rude," Sherlock scolded. "I thought we agreed that disability jabs were off limits."

"All's fair in love and war." Victor shrugged and sat down beside Mycroft.

"Which one are we again?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft rolled his eyes at their antics and pulled out his laptop to better ignore them.

"I like to think we're a little bit of both. What would you say, Mikey?" He elbowed the elder Holmes in the side, earning himself a murderous glare. "Not one for nicknames… duly noted."

"God, can they please take me back to surgery just so I can get away from you," Sherlock groaned.

"Come on, you missed me."

"Not really."

"Not even a little?"

"I miss my port more," Sherlock spat.

"Oh, did they take that out too? Man, you're shirking all your hardware."

"Yes, they took it out." Sherlock's hand inadvertently drifted back to the dressing on his chest.

"That's a big step. Congrats."

"Thanks."

"You know what another big step is?"

"Six months NED?"

"Yes, but I was thinking more along the lines of christening your new friend." He inclined his head towards Sherlock's right leg.

"I wouldn't exactly call it a friend."

"Whatever it is, it needs a name."

"You think my stump needs a name?"

"Yes. To welcome it to the world." Sherlock wanted to say that he thought this was a stupid idea, but he had actually spent the past few days considering options. He wanted to be able to refer to is as something other than merely 'the stump.' Any suggestion of Victor's was sure to be either vulgar or downright mean, but Sherlock could use some immature humor to cheer him up.

"Okay," Sherlock relented. "What do you suggest?"

"I know you're way too professional to consider something as basic as Stumpy, but I thought I ought to at least throw it out there."

"Boring. What else you got?"

"Footloose," Victor said proudly. Sherlock suspected he'd spent a while coming up with that.

"Isn't that the title of some stupid dance movie?"

"Maybe. Wait, how do you even know it's about dancing? I figured you'd never even heard of it."

"I know things," Sherlock defended. Truthfully, he only knew about it because one of the nurses hummed that insipid song under her breath almost every day.

"Do you like it?"

"It's a bit of a misnomer. There's a difference between loose and entirely detached."

"Fine. But I'll still call it that behind your back."

"Whatever."

"If you don't like any of my suggestions, why don't you think of something better?"

"I already have."

"And what's that?"

"Severus."

"Is that Latin? What does that even mean?"

"It doesn't really mean anything, it's the name of a Roman emperor. It sounds like 'sever us,' which is exactly what they did."

"Okay, you can go with your Latin nerd name, but I'm still calling it Footloose."


	5. Baby Steps

His parents arrived early the next morning, early enough that Sherlock wasn't even awake yet. It was a bit daunting to awaken to a room filled with three times the number of people he was used to. And, of course, there was the whole thing about him being recumbent while they were seated upright. However, he immediately amended that by sitting himself up. He went so far as to scoot himself forward and away from the back of the bed so that he could hold himself up straight without support. It was pretty much his first independent act since the surgery, and he tried not to let it show how obnoxiously proud he was for accomplishing something so small. Mycroft noticed his position and eyed him approvingly.

He accepted hugs from both of his parents and tried to ignore the steadily building pain in his stump. Now that the epidural had been removed and all the drugs administered during the latest surgery had worn off, he was gradually returning to baseline. He tried to not let his discomfort show to prevent triggering his mother's fretting or his father's silent despair.

"How are you two?" he asked them.

"Oh, we're fine, don't worry about us," his mother clucked. "We're here for you."

"I'm fine," he said. She looked him up and down and exhaled dramatically. She carded a hand through his short hair and asked, "Why do you always insist that you're fine? Sherlock, it's okay to not be fine."

"But I am fine," he insisted. He shifted his position slightly, and gritted his teeth as the movement sent another bolt of pain up his leg. His mother, ever observant, noticed this and shook her head solemnly.

"You get it from your father. He never admits when he's sick or hurt. He just suffers in silence and hopes I won't notice his infirmity until it resolves itself.

"Unfortunately, there's no hiding this, nor self-resolution," Sherlock quipped with a chuckle. His mother didn't particularly enjoy his pessimistic comment and shook her head at him disapprovingly. "Sorry," he sighed. "It's just easier if I make light of it."

"That's alright. It just sounds so wrong to year you talk about it as if it's no big deal."

"Pretty soon, it won't be," he assured her. "It'll just be a part of me." He didn't believe a word of it, but his primary job was not being honest with them; it was minimizing their strife. Fortunately, his words seemed to do just that. His mother sat back down next to his father and visibly relaxed. They both stared at him for longer than was strictly necessary, and he squirmed under their scrutiny.

"Umm, you can stop staring at me."

"Sorry. It's just been so long since we've seen you. You look so much healthier," his mother explained. He though back to the last time he'd seen his parents; it was two months ago, towards the end of his chemotherapy course. He felt much healthier than he had back then, and to know that he looked the part was reassuring.

"I feel great," he said. In the grand scheme of things, he didn't, but compared to back then, he was practically radiant.

"How's the pain?" his father spoke up for the first time. This was how their visits usually went; Mummy did all the talking, and Dad contributed one or two questions or comments at most.

"It's certainly there," Sherlock admitted, "But it's bearable."

"Have you gotten up at all yet?" Mummy questioned. Sherlock shook his head, though he suspected they'd start letting him move around starting today. Of course, the first time would be in a wheelchair and not on his crutches, but he'd take what he could get. He was growing stir crazy from staring at these same four walls.

"Oh!" his mother blurted out, reaching down for a bag beside her chair. She'd just demonstrated her iconic 'I almost forgot something' exclamation. She handed the bag to Sherlock, and he could identify its contents by the smell emanating from the bag alone. They'd brought him a croissant from his favorite bakery. He used to beg for these whenever they passed the shop when he was little, and he'd never quite grown out of his adoration for them. "We thought you could use something familiar."

"Thank you," he said, literally shuddering with anticipation. Hospital food was the worst. He realized he was actually hungry for the first time in forever, and eagerly took a bite. He chewed slowly, relishing the flaky texture. His mother smiled watching him enjoy it so thoroughly. He at half of it, saving the rest for a little later, and thanked his mother once again.

"You're welcome."

He spent the next hour or so questioning his parents on the current events of their lives, and they were more than happy to discuss it in vivid detail. They almost seemed relieved at the change of subject. His parents were infinitely more comfortable talking about anything other than his current situation. They weren't medical folk, and for the most part they had no idea what was going on beyond how it visibly affected their son. Sherlock himself had tried to be as informed and involved in his treatment as possible, but a lot of it was too complicated even for him.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stayed all morning, but decided to leave around lunchtime. They exchanged hugs all around yet again and said they'd visit again soon. When it came to the Holmes parents, soon could mean anything from a few days to a few months. Sherlock didn't mind them leaving, because he knew being here made them uneasy. He hated seeing them uneasy because he picked up on it and grew uneasy himself.

Once they were gone, Mycroft revealed a box that Sherlock had secretly hoped he'd been waiting to pull out: Operation. He'd introduced the game during one of Sherlock's first hospital stays, and they both loved the cruel irony of playing it surrounded by actual surgeons. Once, on a dare from Victor, Sherlock had asked Dr. Whittaker to play a quick round with him to either confirm or disprove the myth that surgeons were legends at that particular game. He'd responded by saying that no surgeon worth his salt would use only blunt forceps for such meticulous procedures.

"He's probably just afraid you'll beat him," Victor had said, and Sherlock had seen no reason to dispute that claim. Whittaker had cleverly weaseled his way out of putting his reputation in jeopardy.

"Do you want to play?" Mycroft asked him.

"Of course," Sherlock responded eagerly. While Mycroft set the game up on a small table, Sherlock maneuvered himself towards the left side of the bed, placing his good leg on the floor and leaving the other elevated on the bed. This way, he was close enough to the board to access all the pieces.

"Are you supposed to be doing that?" Mycroft questioned once he noticed what Sherlock was doing.

"I don't see why not. The alternative is passing the board back and forth, but that would move all the pieces around."

"Alright. But if anyone comes in here to scold you, I'm not defending you."

"Fine by me. Let's go."

Sherlock went first, easily removing Brain Freeze by grabbing the raised edge of the cone. They never used the cards or the game money, instead simply alternating removing the pieces until they were all gone. They each had their preferred targets, and sometimes Sherlock took Mycroft's so he'd be forced to go for those he wasn't as skilled with. However, they were yet to reach the end stage of the game, so he probably wouldn't hear the buzzer at all until a few more turns had passed.

They kept at it until nothing remained except for Broken Heart and the stupid little rubber band. Mycroft had a close call with Writer's Cramp, and Sherlock swore up and down that he'd seen the red nose flash briefly, but the buzzer hadn't sounded at full volume. When something like that happened, Mycroft argued that surgeons didn't surrender the scalpel after one minor mistake, instead endeavored to fix it.

"You do recognize that this is a game and not real surgery, right?" Sherlock confirmed.

"Yes, but it's supposed to mirror real life."

"How does it mirror real life? This man has an ice cream cone in his skull."

"Unimportant."

Mycroft attempted Broken Heart and definitively failed. He always struggled with that one, something for which Sherlock never ceased to make fun of him. Yet this left Sherlock to attempt to connect the rubber band around the two pegs inside the person's lower leg. He smirked, realizing that he had a figurative 'get out of jail free card' for this particular obstacle.

"I refuse," he stated, throwing down the tweezers.

"You can't just refuse."

"It's hopeless. There's nothing we can do." He elevated his tone overdramatically, but Mycroft still stared at him uncomprehendingly. He continued, "It's broken beyond repair. Even if we try to reconnect it, it'll never work properly." Mycroft's eyes darkened; he finally understood what Sherlock was referring to. "We'll just have to chop it off."

"While I find that sort of humor inappropriate, I suppose nobody is more entitled to make fun of it than you are."

"You are correct in that assumption. But if you try to make jokes like that, I will not hesitate to tell Mummy and Dad that you're bullying me."

Their argument was interrupted by the arrival of Nurse Anne and a man Sherlock didn't recognize. Oh wait, he did know that face, though he'd never been treated by him specifically. He'd seen him around the physical therapy ward during his sessions to attempt to rehabilitate his leg, although this man focused in occupational therapy. In fact, he had had been there to witness the incident that changed the entire course of Sherlock's treatment. Sherlock shivered at the memory.

"Do you think you're up for a brief vacation from this room?" Anne inquired. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. What he really wanted was to get up and walk out, but that wouldn't be an option for quite a while. Anne came a bit closer and saw that he'd already put himself on the edge of the bed.

"Did you ask permission before doing that?" she asked him. Sherlock shook his head no, and she frowned.

"It doesn't hurt, so I don't see a problem," he defended.

"It's not that, I'm just imagining what the next few weeks of rehab are going to be like if you're already making your own decisions on how hard to push yourself." The occupational therapist behind her brought the wheelchair inside, and Sherlock scowled at it. Even though he hadn't been able to walk properly in three months, he'd insisted on using the crutches instead of the chair as often as possible. They made him feel much less dependent and weak. Plus, he hated always having to look up at people; on crutches, he could at least maintain his six foot stature.

"Can't I go straight to crutches?" he asked. He glanced over to where they still sat in the corner of the hospital room. Somehow, he missed them, longed to feel their grip in his hands again.

"Not quite," she told him. "Baby steps."

"Steps?" he chortled. One didn't usually stop to think how many colloquial phrases relied on the assumption that people had two fully-functioning legs… until they suddenly didn't have that.

"Poor turn of phrase, but you know what I mean. You're not getting the crutches until you prove that you can handle the chair."

When she phrased it as a challenge like that, he couldn't help but get riled up. If there was one thing he hated, it was someone suggesting something he couldn't manage. "Fine," he grunted. He wouldn't leave this room unless he consented, anyways, so there was little purpose in trying. They brought the chair closer so he could transfer himself. It was tailored for his situation, complete with a platform on which to rest the stump instead of two footrests. Anne and the occupational therapist moved infuriatingly close as he began to transfer himself. He wanted to send them away, but at the same time he feared he might fall and make everything worse again, so he allowed them to assist.

He planted his left foot more firmly on the floor and allowed their hands to gently guide him into the right position. His face flushed with effort, he pushed into the floor and stood up wobbily. "Easy now," the man's voice rang in his ears. He could feel the edge of the chair at the back of his thigh, and let them ease him down, practiced hands briefly taking the weight of the bandaged stump before setting it down on the chair's support. There was only a brief flash of pain during the transfer, but it quickly dissipated, and suddenly Sherlock was free! His hands naturally found the wheels' rails, and the desire to escape this confining room overwhelmed him.

"Was that alright?" Anne asked. He nodded emphatically; it had gone much more smoothly than he'd anticipated. With a few more tries, he could probably do it without assistance. "Where do you want to go?"

"I think I'll drop by and pay Victor a visit."

"Alright, go surprise your friend," she said, waving him off. "But don't try to get back in bed without finding us first. You haven't been approved to transfer solo yet." Sherlock grinned and headed out the door, barely waiting to hear her final instructions. He knew the route to Victor's room by heart, not that it was a very long journey.

Unfortunately, the door was closed, and he had no way of opening it. He couldn't get close enough to the knob with his leg out in front of him, so he had to reverse, and then back up towards the door so he could reach it with his arms to knock. After he'd sorted that, he rapped sharply twice. "Come in," Victor's voice sounded.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to open the door for me," Sherlock said. He heard Victor's excited gasp, and smiled despite himself. The door opened with a whoosh, and his best friend practically tackled him in a bear hug.

"You're mobile again!" he cheered.

"Well, I was, but now you're pinning me in place. Let go."

"Sorry." Victor released him and held the door open so he could follow him inside. "How does it feel to be out and about?"

"Liberating."

"That's fantastic."

"I appealed to be allowed to try walking today, but Anne said no," Sherlock explained disappointedly.

"Whoa, Singlefoot, you're trying to move way too fast. It's only been four days and you're already begging to be up and walking? That's crazy."

"The more I push myself, the sooner I can start getting back to normal."

"You can't rush this. You know better than anybody what happens when you take on too much too fast," Victor said suggestively.

"That was an accident."

"While that may be true, it was a preventable accident."

"Yeah, I could've prevented it only if I stopped trying entirely."

"You don't have to stop trying, you just have to stop being so stubborn and insistent on doing things you're not ready for."

"I was ready."

"Maybe your head was, but your body wasn't. And there are many things that you're going to want to do in the near future that your body isn't ready for. Please be careful. If not for yourself, then for me."

Sherlock had never heard Victor so sincere before, and it unsettled him. For the most part, their friendship entailed relentlessly making fun of each other. Hearing such genuine concern coming from Victor forced him to reconsider his outlook. Maybe he had been a tad reckless before. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. As infuriating as their instructions could be, he'd completely obey the doctors, nurses, and therapists this time around.

"Okay," he conceded, letting Victor know that he'd try. It would be difficult to quell his desire to send away anyone trying to help him with a snarky comment or insult, but it would be worth it in the end.

"Good."

"Mycroft brought Operation again," Sherlock mentioned, changing the subject drastically. The two of them couldn't sustain such sentimental tension for very long.

"Yeah? How'd that go? He fail at Broken Heart again?"

"Spectacularly."

Victor chortled. "It's not even that hard a piece, why can he never do it?"

"I don't know. It's mystifying."

"Lucky he's just a government bigwig and not a cardiothoracic surgeon."

"His malpractice insurance would be astronomical with a track record like that," Sherlock practically snorted with the force of his laughter.

"Did you win the game?" Victor asked.

"I'd say so. Mycroft would disagree. But you'll be rather pleased with how I solved the Ankle Bone Knee Bone connection one."

"What did you do?" He sounded both suspicious and eager to hear the story.

"I said that it was beyond repair." He paused for dramatic effect. "And we'd just have to chop it off."

"You did not!"

"Yes, I did."

"Savage. How did Mycroft react to that?"

"Something snobbish about him disliking that type of humor. But he also said I'm more entitled to make fun of it than anyone."

"Well, he's not wrong."

"If I'm not going to have a little fun with it, then what's the point?"

"Exactly. You'll spend a lot less time bemoaning the loss when you're making clever jokes about it instead."

"Very true." Victor opened his mouth, undoubtedly to contribute his own crude jabs, but Sherlock stopped him. "But that does not give you the right to do the same thing."

"Aww, man. I had a good one."

"Okay, fine. Hit me."

"You do know there's a good reason roller coasters warn you to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle, right?"

A chuckle escaped his lips, though the joke was mediocre at best. "Tasteless," he described it.

"It was not. That's decent amputee humor!"

"No, decent amputee humor is going to a shore store and demanding half price."

Victor's eyes lit up with delight. "Can we do that?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Maybe," Sherlock relented.

"That means no, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"You suck."

"At least I can suck; you'd be too out of breath," Sherlock teased. Victor crossed his arms and huffed. After being the subject of all of Victor's friendly insults and taunts over the past few days, Sherlock savored returning the favor. Suddenly, he thought about how much he would miss this when he eventually left the hospital. Without their respective illnesses, they never would have met each other in the first place. Victor proved to be one of the few positive things that could come out of such a horrible diagnosis.


	6. One Small Step for Man

After hanging out in Victor's room for an hour or so, Sherlock wheeled himself back to his own room. He felt fatigue creeping up on him, despite the fact that he'd done next to nothing today. He hoped his stamina would begin to rebuild itself as he started working with physical and occupational therapy. He parked himself beside the bed and vaguely remembered that Anne had told him not to attempt to transfer back to the bed alone. Before that conversation with Victor, he would've ignored the reminder and tried it anyway. He recalled how unsteady he'd been and decided it was certainly not worth the risk, so he reached for the call button and pressed it.

Nurse Anne herself answered, and Sherlock observed the evident relief on her face when she found him still in the chair. She probably hadn't expected him to listen to her instructions given his reputation. "Would you like some help?" she asked slowly. Sherlock nodded slightly, watching a smile creep onto her face. "Okay. I'm going to fetch Dan, the OT that helped you before, and we'll get you all set."

She returned within a few minutes with the therapist in tow, and together they helped Sherlock reverse the process that had gotten him into the chair in the first place. He was pleased to note that it was easier than the first time. Dan asked if Sherlock wanted to practice a few more times, and Sherlock gladly obliged. He wasn't near tired enough to give up an opportunity to work towards his independence.

He could tell they helped him a little less this time, but he still managed to transfer without complications. They repeated the process three more times, each with progressively less assistance, until Sherlock accomplished the task with nothing more than supervision from the therapist and nurse. He wanted to try it a few more times alone, but Dan insisted that was sufficient for now; he didn't want Sherlock getting overtired. He reluctantly agreed to rest for a while, and Dan told him he'd be back in a few hours if he wanted to practice more.

Sherlock resigned himself to a moment's relaxation, and feared he'd soon grow bored. He wasn't sure where Mycroft had gone, but presumed some work business had called his attention. Just to make sure, he sent his brother a quick text outlining what he'd done, "Therapist let me transfer without help. Practiced for a while, resting now. SH." He didn't expect an immediate response, but Mycroft surprised him.

"That's great. Be back later this evening. MH."

They always signed their texts with their initials, though Sherlock didn't exactly know why. Mycroft had always done it, and when Sherlock grew old enough to text he adapted the practice. They obviously didn't need a signature, especially when they texted each other, but it was a bit of a tradition that neither had any desire to give up.

Sherlock yawned, somewhat frustrated at being tired so early in the day. He used to stay up all night reading or studying, but once he got sick his brain had demanded longer rests. He still hadn't regained that ability to go without sufficient shuteye, so he resigned himself to taking a nap.

When he awoke, he glanced at the clock and found it to be already dinnertime. A nurse would be in to force him to eat pretty soon, though his stomach actually growled at the prospect of food. When a tray arrived, he ate every morsel, something he hadn't done for as long as he could remember. Even as a child, his eating habits drove his parents mad. Foods of certain textures reviled him, and they'd struggled to find things he'd actually eat without complaining.

Sherlock yawned and put a hand to his face to cover his mouth. His fingers met coarse stubble. He still hadn't completely grown accustomed to the fact that he could grow hair again. He hadn't shaved since before the surgery, and thought he direly needed one now. He couldn't stand in front of the sink like he used to, but this was a task he could actually accomplish all on his own.

Mycroft returned just as Sherlock thought to summon someone to help him retrieve his things from the bag on the other side of the room. Instead, he asked Mycroft, "Could you get my shaving stuff?"

"Not a fan of the beard, are we?" his brother said, rifling through the things Sherlock had brought from home.

"Not particularly."

Mycroft handed Sherlock his things and ventured outside to ask for a mirror and basin. He returned with the two desired objects and handed the mirror to Sherlock. He filled the basin with water and placed it beside Sherlock, far enough away that he wouldn't accidentally knock it over. Sherlock made quick work of his scruff, leaving behind neither a single hair nor nick. He relished doing something completely by himself, without any help from nurses or therapists. Things like that were few and far between nowadays.

When he finished, Mycroft returned everything to its proper place, and Sherlock dug out the other half of his croissant from that morning and nibbled at it. Even after dinner, he still had an appetite, an unfamiliar sensation. It must have been the effort his body was putting in trying to heal up the extensive wounds the surgeons had inflicted.

"Finally putting on some much-needed weight, I see," Mycroft observed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock spoke with his mouth still full, knowing it would annoy his elder brother to no end.

"You've been skin and bones for far too long." Sherlock couldn't argue with that, so he finished the treat and licked his fingers. Mycroft scoffed at his abysmal manners. "And boorish even longer than that."

"Our priorities differ," Sherlock stated diffidently.

"Indeed."

A knock at the door, and Dan entered, asking if Sherlock wanted any more practice before settling down for the night. Sherlock eagerly accepted this offer, because Dan would almost certainly approve him for transferring alone if he did it successfully a few more times. Dan stepped close enough to catch him if he stumbled or fell, but otherwise let Sherlock work entirely by himself.

Sherlock noted that some muscle memory for the task already existed, and he barely had to think before moving easily. Dan smiled and nodded, encouraging him to do it again. Mycroft watched from a few meters away, fingers perched on his chin while he observed. Sherlock did it three more times each way, finding the movement more fluid with every repetition. Dan didn't so much as flinch the entire time.

"Fantastic," he said. "You caught on awfully quickly."

"Yeah?" Sherlock huffed, mildly out of breath from so much activity.

"Yes. I don't think you need me here if you decide to get up." Sherlock grinned at gaining even this meager degree of freedom. If he wanted to go somewhere, he wouldn't have to wait for someone to watch him transfer and ensure he didn't fall. Of course, Mycroft would still look like he was having a heart attack every time, but Sherlock could easily ignore him. "But don't go crazy, no hopping around the room or anything. To the chair and back, nothing more until we get you down to PT, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. He knew he'd quickly grow frustrated with the slow pace of this process, but he didn't have much choice. He'd practically promised Victor that he'd go slowly and cautiously, a promise which he intended to keep.

~0~

Much to his elation, the physical therapists invited him to take the next step the morning afterwards. He'd been anxiously awaiting taking his first steps—even if they were technically assisted hops. They switched out the chair he'd been using for a one without a platform so he could more easily get in and out of it. He transferred himself eagerly and followed them down to the physical therapy department.

However, upon arrival, the memories of his time spent here in the past months came swirling back. He'd worked his arse off here in an attempt to learn how to make his reconstructed leg function. He reached many milestones, only for it all to come crashing down in that one fateful moment. He wouldn't let something like that happen again. His old therapist reintroduced himself: Stephen. Sherlock was both glad and terrified to see him at the same time.

"Welcome back," he greeted. "Do you still remember me?"

"How could I ever forget?" Sherlock replied. He didn't want to take the time for small talk; he wanted to get up and go.

"Alright, we're going to start slow. I'm not going to lie; it'll be weird and uncomfortable the first time."

"Everything about my life is currently weird and uncomfortable," Sherlock drawled.

"Fair enough. Do you think you're ready?"

"Yes."

Stephen began by outlining exactly what they would do today, "We're going to start with a walker for stability, and I'll be in front of you holding the stump so you don't have to take its full weight yet. Does that make sense?" Sherlock nodded, growing antsy at the prospect of walking. As he braced himself for the battle ahead, a twinge of phantom pain made him grimace. He hoped they would start teaching him ways to manage that soon, it was growing worse with every passing day.

He planted his left foot on the floor and gripped the walker with sweaty hands. Now that he was actually faced with the task of standing and walking, he wasn't sure he was ready. Stephen reached out to take the swaddled stump, and Sherlock forced himself upwards despite his reservations. He wobbled a little bit, but forced his core to engage and maintain his balance.

Now that he was up, it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. Certainly, it hurt, but pain was an old friend at this point in his life. Confidence returning, he edged the walker forwards and hopped a step. He could hear Stephen congratulating him and encouraging him forwards, but the sheer exhilaration overpowered him. He took another shuffle forwards, and another. Soon enough, he found a rhythm, and Stephen in his rolling chair could barely scoot backwards fast enough to keep up with him.

"Whoa, slow down," he instructed. "Not just for your sake, but for mine." Sherlock stilled and sat back down in the wheelchair that had followed him all the way down the hall, pushed by another therapist as a precaution in case he fell. Stephen gently let go of the stump, straightened up, and eyed Sherlock with a look of barely contained amazement.

"Well, you're certainly not holding back," he remarked.

"Why would I?" Sherlock questioned. He could think of many answers to that question, some of which did apply to him: pain, fear, and anxiety to name a few. But if he gave in to any of those, let them take control and restrict what he did, he'd never attain a full recovery. "Can we go again?"

They practiced walking back and forth down the hallway, though Stephen never surrendered Severus's weight. Part of Sherlock wanted him to let go just to see what would happen, but he understood that too much too soon would do him more harm than good. Besides, all the bandages made it look heavy, and he wasn't sure he could actually hold up that much. Maybe in a few days.

"Excellent work," Stephen commented as Sherlock returned to the chair once more. They were both worn out from all the effort.

"Thank you."

"I think that's enough for this morning. But we'll keep working at it later today and for the next few days."

"Okay." Sherlock returned to his room and to his bed, feeling like he needed a nap. Mycroft was nowhere in sight, evidently gone off to work. Sherlock texted him to let him know what he'd just accomplished, but received no response, meaning Mycroft was probably stuck in a meeting. He laid back against the pillow and tried to fathom what had just happened. He'd actually walked! That was the first in a long series of firsts that would arrive as he continued this journey.

He felt the energy level in the room swell before the figure even set foot inside: Victor. "No way!" he exclaimed, throwing the door open and storming inside. "No way!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend's histrionics, but was secretly proud. "You're ambulatory now?! That's great!"

"Yeah, I guess it kinda is," Sherlock admitted. He felt the color rise to his cheeks and suspected he'd turned a bright pink.

"Why didn't you invite me? I would've made a sign, painted my face and screamed bloody murder the whole time."

"It was physical therapy, not a football match."

"Doesn't mean I can't get excited."

"Fine. I'm going back this afternoon. You can come, but no face paint or screaming."

"So, that's a yes for a sign?"

"You're too lazy to make a sign."

"True. Anyways, how did it feel?"

"Great. Although being totally upright makes the phantom pains worse, I ignored it in favor of walking."

"Can they give you anything for that?"

"Not really. My nerves just have to get used to their new situation. I think they said they'll teach me certain techniques to help ease it, but they're not too bad. For the most part, it's just tingling and itching."

"Itching can be worse than pain."

"Only if you focus on it."

"You sound like an absolute psychopath when you say that."

"I prefer the term high-functioning sociopath."


	7. Dragging Your Feet

They performed the first stage of skin grafting two days after those fateful first steps. They placed synthetic skin over the uncovered area, and they'd transfer some of Sherlock's own skin to the wound a bit later. It would be taken from higher up on Sherlock's right leg so that his good leg could remain entirely unscathed.

He wanted to walk immediately afterwards, but they wouldn't let him. Reluctantly, he rested for a few hours before practicing some more. However, he didn't last as long as he would've liked because he grew tired. He spent the remainder of the day reading a book and napping intermittently.

The next day, he started mirror therapy. The phantom pain had been incrementally increasing over the past few days, and it was growing difficult to bear. His nonexistent foot would cramp up at random times whether he was walking, sitting, or lying down. It tingled almost constantly, and the desire to rub the ache out but knowing he couldn't infuriated him. Sometimes, when rhythmic breathing failed to ease it enough, he'd close his eyes and reach out to where his foot ought to be and try to massage the imaginary ache. His brain almost believed it, but not quite.

When he complained about the phantom pain, mirror therapy was almost immediately offered as a potential solution. The next thing he knew, he was lying on a table propped up on his elbows and staring down at his foot.

"Now, how mirror therapy works," another person explained to him. He'd stopped bothering to learn the names of everyone he interacted with. There were too many of them, and it wasted brain space. "Is it makes your brain think it still has two complete legs. So when you move one leg, your brain sees the other moving and thinks it's telling it to move."

They placed a long, rectangular mirror between his legs and covered the stump with a blanket so it was out of sight. Looking in the mirror, he saw what looked like a right leg—his right leg. For a moment, he could believe his body was still whole. He flexed his left foot and watched the right foot flex at the same time.

"Whoa." The murmur escaped him without his consent, but it perfectly embodied how he felt.

"I know, it's pretty crazy, huh? The human brain is more easily taken advantage of than you think. It's like an optical illusion, but for your feet."

He wiggled his toes as he'd done so many times before the surgery, and felt like he'd made his right toes wiggle all the same. "I can feel my foot moving… but I know it's not there."

"You might know that, but your brain hasn't quite got the memo yet."

They had him continue pointing and flexing his left foot, then he sickled it inwards and touched the surface of the mirror. He instantly felt the sensation in his right foot, as if he'd actually touched it. He was both weirded out and fascinated all at the same time.

When he felt the phantom cramping again, he reached out and massaged his left foot, watching the reflection at the same time. It was like magic. Seeing the reflection of his left hand rub the knots out of the reflection of his left foot, he felt as if he was kneading his right foot.

"We can leave a mirror in your room to use if you'd like." Sherlock nodded emphatically. He wasn't overly fond of the idea that his mind was so easily convinced of a lie, but it helped the pain better than anything he'd tried, so he accepted. He would use it almost daily for the duration of his stay, and would later claim it was the most helpful therapy he'd ever been provided with.

~0~

That afternoon, the physical therapists told him he could try to walk without someone holding the stump. He practically jumped for joy—except he obviously couldn't jump. But he certainly would've been jumping, had he possessed the ability.

This also meant a reunion with his crutches. He ran his hands along the length, remembering the first time he obtained them. They were his first and only pair—fortunately, his diagnosis came late enough in life that continued growth wasn't a problem. He had enough problems without worrying about outgrowing equipment.

Not long after his diagnosis, the pain from the tumor had made full weight bearing on his right leg a nearly impossible feat. This continued through the beginning of his course of treatment, up until the first surgery. Walking normally after that was out of the question, so his crutches continued their position as his constant companions. They made the world far more accessible than a wheelchair or walker, and he'd been determined to hold onto every shred of independence he still possessed.

Now, he could slowly begin to regain that level of self-sufficiency. Down in the PT department, he affixed the straps around his wrists and prepared to finally take his first unaided (by a person) steps. It came to him far easier than he expected it to, the muscle memory of 'click, hop, click, hop' taking over like he'd never stopped.

He didn't even notice how far he'd gone until he almost slammed face first into the wall at the end of the hallway. The sound of Stephen clapping penetrated the fog of his intense focus, and he turned around to find nearly the entire department beaming at him. Normally, he hated this type of attention, the type that came from him doing something nobody expected him to be able to do, but deep down, he glowed with pride. On the outside though, he said, "I understand people will get excited when infants toddle about for the first time, but I cannot comprehend why I, a full grown man of twenty five years, am worthy of the same degree of praise."

His miniature speech was horribly over-inflated, and he sounded like Mycroft, but he thought he had the right to be a tad pompous now that he wasn't entirely reliant on these other people. "Because it's even more difficult for you than for an infant," Stephen explained. "If anything, you're more deserving."

Sherlock accepted this explanation without a word and walked back to where he'd started. He admitted to himself that maybe this was just a bit worthy of praise. He'd have to start focusing on the things he could do versus the extensive list of things he couldn't. Otherwise, he'd fall into depression.

He walked up and down multiple hallways before his good leg and arms began to tire and Stephen suggested he take a break. He knew if he went on much longer his arms would give out entirely, but a part of him didn't want to surrender to sitting down again. But his exhaustion won out and he plopped himself back into the chair, laying his crutches across his lap.

"Excellent work," Stephen commended. "Being able to move around like that is going to make many things a lot easier."

"I sure hope so."

"Well, the hardest part is over. Now it's just a long, upward trek."

"Sounds like a good time," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. His life in the past year had been nothing but a long, upward trek, except he periodically fell backwards down whatever mountain it was he ascended. Hopefully, once he reached the apex this time he'd be able to remain there.

~0~

The days started to blend together as Sherlock's life became a monotonous routine of sleeping, eating, taking meds, PT, dressing changes, and using the mirror. He was glad to be down to oral painkillers, but now he had a bit more control over when he administered them. He had a schedule, of course, which he adhered to as much as possible, but he now needed to be responsible for fending off temptation. He was allowed some additional doses as needed, but he hated giving in to his whining Transport. He wanted to show it that it didn't control him, and so far, he'd succeeded. He didn't need an addiction on top of everything else going on in his life. He couldn't exactly go limping into back alleys and attempt to make deals with dangerous rogue dealers in his current state.

Physical therapy grew more engaging every day as he advanced. They had him balancing on his good leg entirely unaided now, and instead of merely walking they wanted him attempting various obstacle courses in the department. The work was a lot more bearable now that he could set concrete goals and visualize his progress.

Victor came several times to watch and 'cheer him on,' though Sherlock suspected he was merely curious about the exercises they had him doing. In the early stages of their friendship, they'd often interrogated each other about their treatment regimens out of sheer lack of any conversation topics. Their personalities may contrast horribly, but this was one, immutable thing they had in common. When (if) they got out of here, Sherlock doubted they'd remain as close friends. This environment had brought them together, and without it, there'd be nothing tethering them to each other anymore. Sherlock wondered if Victor would miss him once he was discharged. He wondered if he would miss Victor.

Ideally, he'd leave here and never come back, but the chance of recurrence always loomed just behind his head. Just because the original site had been severed didn't mean the cells couldn't pop up somewhere else, somewhere more difficult to excise. Sherlock tried not to let that fear occupy his thoughts too often, but it popped up every so often. It was the only thing that might keep him in Victor's company a little longer, as he wasn't quite to the end of his course. Sherlock shivered at the idea of starting this horrid cycle all over again, and tried to refocus on something else.

His life before had been satisfactory, but not extraordinary. He'd just finished studying chemistry at university when the constant pain below his right knee had crossed the threshold of ignorable. Almost immediately after term ended, his peers noticed his severe limp, so he'd called Mycroft and let the British Government handle this how he handled everything: by taking over and micromanaging every aspect. Sherlock suspected he'd had over twenty oncologists thoroughly vetted and interviewed before choosing one to treat his little brother. And the rest was history.

Would he be able to return to a life like that when this was all over? He didn't see how he could feasibly pick up where he left off. Too much had changed since then. Besides, he didn't exactly have a circle of friends who missed him dearly. He had Victor, and Mycroft, and that was pretty much it. He didn't foresee widening that circle much in the near future. Nobody would be able to see past his wounds. No matter what he did, that would be the first thing anyone ever saw, at least until he learned to use a prosthetic. Everybody he met would immediately pity him, and that's something he wanted to deal with as seldom as possible.

~0~

About two and a half weeks after the surgery, they removed the stitches. Sherlock watched the entire process, now accustomed to Severus after watching several previous dressing changes. His initial assessment had been correct: it got easier every time. Now he was fascinated with watching the healing process, noting miniscule changes in the color and degree of swelling. Fortunately, he felt minimal pain as they pulled the sutures, and he watched the scar revealed bit by bit. It was a huge step, and he was glad to be finished with it. Now all that remained was the second stage of the skin graft, and he was (hopefully) done with surgeries.

Everything was a waiting game. Now he waited for the newly pieced together bones of his lower leg to fuse together until they were strong enough to bear weight again. Once that happened, and the wounds healed, he could start working with prosthetics. It was a day he both awaited and dreaded. It was far enough in the future that he pushed it to the back of his mind and focused instead on the here and now. He threw everything he had into physical therapy, so much so that Stephen often forced him to stop out of fear he'd overtire and fall over. Sherlock made incredible progress, even by his own high standards, until they wanted him to try stairs.

In all honesty, this day should have come much sooner, but Sherlock suspected the therapists had been putting it off as long as possible. They knew how he would react. Sherlock hadn't even paused to suspect how he would react to being faced with such a task, until now. He stood shakily at the foot of the staircase, staring at the insurmountable mountain ahead of him.

"Sherlock," Stephen coaxed gently. "You can do this. I've seen you do it countless times before."

"I can't," he spoke meekly. He couldn't face this again, not after what happened last time. His fatal mistake on this very staircase is what led to this whole mess in the first place. Until then, there'd been hope that he could survive with two legs intact. "I can't do it," he repeated, taking a step back.

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't. Not after last time."

"Forget about last time. That's in the past. All you need to worry about is right now. And right now, I know you can do this. I'll be right next to you. Just go slowly, don't rush it, and you'll be at the top before you know it."

"No," Sherlock said vehemently. He shook his head and stepped back even further. He was not going to do this today. He wasn't ready; it was too soon. Without another word, he skulked all the way back to his room. He sat down on the bed and hurled his crutches at the wall, burying his face in his hands.

No tears came, though he felt building pressure behind his eyes like water behind a dam. He wasn't just upset at what his last trip up stairs had cost him; he was angry with himself for being unable to face it. He'd aced every task Stephen had placed before him without hesitation. Physically, there was no reason for him not to try this. None at all. The only obstacle before him was entirely mental, and he hated himself for it. It was one thing for pain or physical inability to stop him, but it was entirely another for his own brain to hold him back.

His mind was supposed to be his greatest asset, especially given it was trapped inside a body that had decided to attack itself. He once thought his brain was the only thing that had any chance of coming out of this ordeal unscathed. Evidently, he was wrong. His mind just may have fared worse than his body.

Sherlock flopped backwards and stared up at the ceiling, looking at the discolored patches against the stark white. Everything about hospitals was stark white, and it drove him crazy. Would it kill them to add a splash of color here and there? It would really brighten the place up. Not that they cared much about being bright and cheery. Functionality was their sole purpose: take the broken people, patch them up, and send them on their merry way.

That's exactly what they were trying to do with him, and his stupid fear was preventing them from doing their job. If he couldn't pull himself together, he was a wrench in their gears. Other systems threw out broken pieces, but hospitals didn't have that luxury. People left in exclusively one of two ways: they got better, or they died. He didn't foresee dying any time soon, so he'd have to get better. No staircase would stop him from breaking free of this white-walled prison.

He sat up and steeled himself, running his hand over the newest dressing. When he left, they'd send him away with a cast to wear for a few weeks, which would eventually be switched out for a plastic protector. But he didn't need to worry about that right now. The only thing he needed to concern himself with was dominating that staircase. However, one small problem arose: his crutches lay across the room where he'd thrown them in exasperation. It wasn't all that far, so he decided to go for it.

Sherlock hopped across the room, ignoring pain that spiked every time his foot contacted the floor. He reached the wall without incident and leant up against it, sweating with effort. He bent his knee slightly, reached down, and managed to grab both of them in one hand. He affixed the straps to his wrists and crutched his way back to where he'd come from. When he arrived, he was met with a sight he certainly hadn't expected: a padded staircase.

In his brief absence, they'd managed to address the root of his fear. Even if he fell, the results couldn't possibly be as disastrous as last time. He walked to the foot of the staircase and admired the therapists' handiwork.

"Changed your mind, did you?" Stephen asked. Sherlock nodded resolutely. "Does this help?" he gestured to the adapted stairs.

"Definitely," Sherlock said. "I'm ready to try now."

"Okay."

They went through the process verbally beforehand, with Stephen demonstrating each step to the best of his two-legged ability. When broken down, it actually seemed rather easy, and Sherlock felt his confidence return full-force. He kept it in check, knowing that being confident was one step shy of being arrogant, and arrogance had been his downfall last time.

He handed his right crutch off to a waiting hand, and placed his right hand on the handrail of the stairs. With Stephen right behind him, he placed his left crutch on the step above and hopped up. He repeated the process, climbing three steps in the same rhythmic pattern. Now that he was actually doing it, it seemed silly how afraid he'd been. It was honestly easier than many of the things they'd already had him do. He reached the landing and stopped to turn around, seeing Stephen grinning ridiculously.

"I know, I know, you're going to say 'I told you so,'" Sherlock said before Stephen could. "And yes, you did tell me so. That wasn't so bad."

"You did it perfectly," the therapist remarked. Sherlock quirked a small smile. However, going up was only half the battle; now he'd have to go down. He braced himself and prepared to reverse the process. It was only a tiny bit more daunting than going up because he could see exactly how far he'd fall if he slipped up. Nevertheless, he made it to the bottom without incident and heaved a massive sigh of relief.

Stephen clapped him on the back in congratulation, and Sherlock smiled again. All of his nervous energy had drained, leaving nothing behind but a strange shakiness. Now that it was over, he was exhilarated and exhausted all at the same time. He didn't want to do anything else taxing for the rest of the day. He told Stephen as much, and the therapist gladly allowed him the rest of the day off to recuperate. Sherlock returned to his room, not dejected and angry as he'd been last time, but proud and relieved to be done with what had proved the most difficult obstacle yet. Now that he'd conquered such a formidable enemy, he couldn't foresee anything stopping him.


	8. Ankle to Knee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of self advertisement: Writing is not my only creative outlet. I also knit. A lot. And most of it is fandom related. If anyone is interested in seeing any of my work and happens to have Instagram, follow @too_knit_to_quit
> 
> I post about many different fandoms, including Sherlock, Marvel, Game of Thrones, Star Wars, and Harry Potter, along with some other bonus projects. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Sherlock waltzed into Victor's room to tell him about his achievement of the previous day. Typically, it was Victor who did the wandering around the hospital to find Sherlock, but Sherlock wanted to utilize his newfound freedom as much as possible. Plus, Victor was in the middle of a chemo dose and in no mood to go exploring at the moment.

Sherlock sat down in the chair next to Victor and glanced to the top of the IV pole briefly. He was unimaginably glad to be through with that phase of his own treatment. This phase was infinitely less painful.

"How's life?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly. Victor blew an exasperated raspberry. "That good, huh?"

"After this, I'm down to two more," Victor said.

"That's good, isn't it?"

"I'd prefer zero."

"Well, you can't get to zero without first going through two. That's how numbers work."

"I do know how numbers work. I went to primary school."

"Thanks for the reminder. Sometimes I'm not so sure you went to any school."

"Charming."

"Want to hear about what I did yesterday?"

"Sure. I've got nothing better to do."

"I climbed the stairs," Sherlock announced. Victor stopped and stared in disbelief. He knew all about the cause of Sherlock's ingrained fear and how difficult it must've been for him to finally conquer such an obstacle.

"No way."

"Yes way."

"I don't believe you."

"You can ask Stephen and he'll tell you. I'm not lying. I have no reason to."

"That's nuts. You went all the way up and back down?"

"No, I climbed up and got stuck. In fact, I'm still there quivering in fear of descending."

"Very funny. But seriously, that's great. Just don't get cocky and try it too quickly again."

"Of course. No way in hell would I try to pick up the pace even a little bit after last time."

"Hey, for all we know, it would've failed anyway and you just expedited the process. Maybe this was a better course of action to begin with."

"Maybe you're right. But I don't think I'll ever stop wondering what if… you know? If that hadn't happened, maybe I'd still have two feet."

"Don't waste your brainpower on something stupid like that. You've got more important things to worry about."

"Like what?"

"Like finally getting out of here for good."

"Victor, nobody like us is ever out of here for good. There's only an ever decreasing frequency of follow-up appointments."

"You know what I meant. 'Out of here for good' has a much better ring to it than 'out of here for ever decreasingly frequent follow-ups."

"Fair enough," Sherlock relented.

"When you leave, promise me you won't sever all contact with me."

"Victor, why would I do that?"

"Because outside of this hospital we have nothing in common. You'll be out there living your life, and I'll still be here for a while being the angel of a patient that I am." Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend's mock innocence. He had never been and would never be an angel of a patient.

"Of course I'll still talk to you. We'll be the type of friends that get together once a month for coffee or whatever."

"I'd like that."

"Me too."

Honestly, Sherlock hated the idea of never seeing Victor again. He'd never known someone to so thoroughly understand what made him tick, or someone who could empathize as well as Victor. They may not have much in common, but those few things they did share were immeasurably important. Besides, they'd yet to explore the wonderful world of returning to a normal life, and Sherlock didn't want to go it alone.

"Sherlock?" Victor's voice drew his attention back to reality. "Want to go down to peds with me later?" Sherlock didn't know how to answer. He would never go down there of his own accord, never again, but Victor had invited him. If he said no, he'd have to explain himself. So he said yes:

"Okay."

"Great. There's someone I want you to meet."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you. It's a surprise."

"You know I hate surprises."

"Yes, I do know that. That's why you're getting one."

~0~

Sherlock met up with Victor again a few hours later for the surprise meeting in the pediatric oncology ward. He appeared mostly recovered from the dose of chemo, but still a little green. "Are you sure you're up for traveling?" Sherlock asked for the third time already. He wasn't truly worried for Victor's constitution, but for his own; he didn't think he could handle visiting there without being overwhelmed.

"Yeah, I'm right as rain," Victor insisted. "Why do you keep trying to talk me out of this?"

"I'm not trying to talk you out of it."

"It sure sounds like you are."

"Well, I'm not." Victor eyed Sherlock suspiciously, but didn't argue further. Much to Sherlock's surprise, he actually hooked himself up to the portable oxygen before opening the door for Sherlock. He led the way through the hospital, Sherlock hopping behind. With their respective infirmities, they had nearly identical walking paces, and probably similar levels of stamina as well. Victor could only go so far without becoming short of breath, and Sherlock's arms could only take most of his weight for so long before they grew fatigued. As they passed, several personnel turned their heads to watch them go by. Even in a hospital, a one-legged man and his oxygen-toting companion was a rare sight. This was only a taste of what he would inevitably experience out in public.

"Can you tell me about who we're meeting now?" Sherlock inquired.

"Hmmm… no. You'll know when we get there."

"But what if I say something stupid because I don't know anything about this person or their situation." Sherlock deduced this mystery figure must be a child, if they resided in peds, and he did not want making a sick kid cry on his track record.

"You won't say anything stupid. You two have rather a lot in common."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll see."

"God, you're infuriating sometimes."

"I try my best."

The reached their destination and were greeted by festive anthropomorphic animals upon the walls. Sherlock always found the décor of pediatric hospitals ironic. Why were the animals so happy when they saw countless children suffer and die before their oversized eyes? Then again, cartoon animals in mourning would probably set most children on edge in an already stressful environment. The designers knew what they were doing. This was certainly better than the blank whiteness of the adult wards.

Victor had a brief conversation with a nurse, one that involved a lot of smiling from both parties. He gestured in Sherlock's direction, and the nurse glanced up at him. He considered waving at her, and then remembered that both of his arms were otherwise occupied. He couldn't exactly wave an entire crutch around or he'd whack something. The nurse nodded, and Victor looked ridiculously pleased with himself as she returned to her station. He motioned for Sherlock to follow him and set off towards a certain room. He knocked on the door, and a child's voice asked from within, "Who's there?"

"It's Victor."

"Come in!" Whoever it was sounded awfully excited. Sherlock felt his stomach flutter with nervousness and anticipation as Victor opened the door and waltzed inside. Sherlock followed hesitantly, wondering how Victor knew this kid and why he felt that Sherlock needed to meet him. "Victor!" the child exclaimed, opening her arms for him to embrace her. Victor gladly obliged. "And you brought a friend!" She released Victor and trained her eyes on Sherlock. She scrutinized him from top to bottom, pausing briefly when she reached knee level.

"I did bring a friend, Ophie," Victor announced. "This is Sherlock."

"That's a funny name," she snickered. Sherlock lightly rolled his eyes; he'd heard that hundreds of times before from children and adults alike. He'd asked his parents why they hadn't chosen 'normal' names countless times, and they always answered that ordinary was boring, and both of their boys deserved extraordinary.

"Sherlock, this is Ophelia," Victor introduced. Once again, Sherlock had to stop himself before waving and settled for a meek smile instead.

"My parents are big Hamlet fans," she remarked. Sherlock observed her a little more closely, noticing she was about eleven or twelve years old, completely bald, but not as dangerously skinny as some young patients Sherlock had seen. "Though I doubt they ever expected they would worry about me meeting a similar end." Sherlock was familiar enough with Hamlet to understand what she was talking about. Ophelia died young; she went mad and then drowned in a pond after covering herself in woven flower chains. He decided he very much liked this little girl; he sensed a spunk that not many children her age possessed. But he still didn't know why Victor insisted he meet her.

"Listen, I wanted Sherlock to come and meet you because he's recently lost a dear friend and I thought you could offer some consolation."

"What?" Sherlock hadn't lost anybody that recently, so what the hell was he talking about? And why would this particular girl be able to help him?

"You're telling me you don't miss him at all? You were all upset about becoming odd-toed or whatever."

"My foot? You called my foot a 'dear friend?'"

"You saw it every day for twenty five years of your life and relied on it constantly. That's practically the definition of a dear friend. Anyways, Ophie's living proof that life with one foot isn't all that bad, right?"

"I have two feet, Victor," she corrected. Sherlock grew more and more confused by the second. He looked around the room to gather evidence, and his gaze fell upon a pair of short crutches against the wall and a prosthesis leaning against the bed. Was that what they had in common? But then why did Ophelia insist she had two feet? He glanced back at her, but the sheet covered her bottom half and he couldn't decipher the shape beneath it.

"You're right, I'm sorry. But you can still relate, right? Or was coming here a waste of time?"

"Yes, I can relate. Don't be stupid." She straightened up and pulled the sheet back, revealing to Sherlock the reason for Victor's bringing him here. She was also an amputee… but not in the traditional sense. Her right leg was shortened, but it didn't end in a stump like Sherlock's. Instead, her heel sat where her knee ought to be, and her foot was facing the wrong direction. Sherlock was puzzled. He stared a moment too long, and Ophelia and Victor shared a laugh at his utter befuddlement. "It's called a rotationplasty," she explained. "They didn't want a perfectly good foot going to waste, so they reattached it after they removed my knee."

"Fascinating…" is all Sherlock managed to mutter. He was embarrassed at not being able to form a more coherent sentence, but his brain was scrambled.

"How long has it been since yours?" she asked.

"About three weeks," Sherlock approximated.

"Yikes—still fresh. Do you really miss it like a dear friend?"

"Not as much as one would expect."

"That's good."

"You?"

"Not one bit. They offered limb salvage, and I was like, "No thank you, but I'd rather have a functioning joint than some stiff metal contraption. So what if that joint happens to be a backwards ankle and not a knee.' Haven't looked back since."

"Impressive. What did your parents think of this decision?"

"They were a bit hesitant, but agreed to go along with whatever I decided. I'm old enough to know what I want and don't want."

"You certainly are," Victor remarked. Sherlock was in awe of this little girl. She had taken everything in stride—pardon the phrasing—and opted for an unconventional treatment over preserving outward appearance. That took guts of a caliber Sherlock himself could only dream of mustering.

"Um, where are your parents?" Sherlock asked. Usually, when a child was hospitalized, the parents would hover like hummingbirds around a flower. Ophelia's were nowhere in sight.

"Out shopping. I requested a few things to stave off the boredom. I'm just here for a chemo dose and then hopefully I'll go home for a few more days before coming back for the last dose. Fingers crossed I make counts so this can be over and done with." Sherlock knew all about the unpredictability of a treatment course, and the anxiety of waiting to see when he'd be able to knock one more dose off the seemingly endless list. It was the waiting and the hoping more than the physical sickness that made it so abysmal.

"We'll certainly be hoping right along with you," Victor said. "Right Sherlock?"

"Of course. Second to last dose is a pretty big deal, huh?"

"Yeah. Technically, this is my second penultimate dose, but it hasn't lost its importance."

"Second?"

"Yeah. This is a relapse. But according to the doctors, we've nipped it in the bud and I should be good to go after the last dose."

"You seem so… nonchalant. About this whole thing," Sherlock commented. He couldn't comprehend how she remained so calm in the face of a second battle against such a despicable enemy. He'd nearly lost it during the first round; he doubted he could withstand another.

"It's just cancer. Nothing I haven't handled before." Sherlock was baffled at this little girl's strength. She was a force to be reckoned with. If he was cancer, he wouldn't dare return to her fierce little body.

"I think you should put that on a T-shirt," Victor said. "'It's just cancer.'"

"Would you wear one if I made them?" she turned to Sherlock.

"Sure," he replied without hesitation.

"I love clever tee shirts," she sighed. "I have so many I've lost count. Victor, get my bag." Victor grabbed it from the corner and placed it in her lap. She pulled out a massive stack of shirts and started laying them out one by one. She explained the story behind each of them, and Sherlock listened enraptured. One pictured the infamous Queen of Hearts shouting, 'Off with her leg!' and another bore simply the words: 'Leg Story: $10.' All of them were quite humorous, but those were the ones that stuck out. "This one's my favorite," she announced. It read, "Quit pulling my leg—seriously, it will come off." Both Sherlock and Victor actually laughed out loud at that one.

"Okay… I have to ask," Victor said through the giggled. "Have you ever gone shoe shopping and demanded half price?"

"No, but that's a good idea. You should do that," she told Sherlock.

"Maybe I will." He decided to appease her, even though he knew he'd be doing no such thing. He didn't need new shoes, mostly because he didn't outgrow them anymore. Ophelia, on the other hand, was still growing and likely needed new pairs with regularity.

"Victor, make him do it," she instructed.

"Ophie, I can't make him do anything. He's too stubborn." Sherlock smirked, knowing Victor was exactly right.

"Fine. But if I end up making those tees, you'll have to make him wear it at least once."

"I think I'll be able to manage that."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"While we wait for my parents to return, do you have anything to do for entertainment? What do the grownup patients around here do for fun?"

Honestly, not much. Having fun in a hospital wasn't easy, especially for adults. Children were usually offered all sorts of recreational activities by staff and volunteers alike. For the most part, Sherlock and Victor just chatted and insulted each other. However, Sherlock had one idea that might entertain Ophelia. He excused himself and walked all the way back to his own room, promising to return with something to do. He saw Operation sitting on the side table where Mycroft had left it.

He moved to pick it up and then remembered the primary downside of using crutches: no free hands. He had no feasible way to carry it back to Ophelia's room. Sherlock growled in frustration and debated what to do. He could either use the wheelchair or ask someone to carry it for him. He opted for the latter, flagging down the nearest nurse and requesting the game be run over to Ophelia's room in the pediatric ward. He thought for a moment that she'd say no because she had more important things to do, but he turned on the puppy dog eyes and slouched a bit. Primary upside of using crutches: using pity to one's advantage. He normally abhorred pity, but for a man in his situation there was no way around it. He might as well use it for his own benefit.

He followed the nurse back to Ophelia's and thanked her for holding the door for him. "Have you ever played Operation?" he inquired.

"A few times," she answered.

"But have you ever played Operation in a hospital?"

Her eyes lit up with devious mirth. "Nope."

"Believe me, it's twice the fun."

"It won't be when I beat you."

"We'll see about that."


	9. Half Priced Shoes

Sherlock had his second skin graft exactly twenty six days after the initial amputation. Mycroft was there to see him off to the operating room once again, but anxiety levels were at a minimum. Minor procedures were old hat already. After this, they'd keep him here for a day or two to ensure there was no infection and to keep his pain under control, and then he could go home.

The idea of returning to the real world was almost incomprehensible. This hospital had been his primary home for nearly a year, with the house serving as a temporary refuge to which he returned occasionally between chemos. It wasn't his house, but Mycroft's. His elder brother took him in immediately after his diagnosis and assumed the role of caretaker. At first, Sherlock had been reluctant to surrender his independence to his brother of all people, but mere days into the treatment regimen he was immensely glad he'd done so. There was no possible way he could've handled any of it alone. That would remain true for the next several months while he waited for prosthetic approval and started using one for the first time. There were simply too many things he still couldn't do on his own.

His excitement at the prospect of leaving was challenged only by his nostalgia for his friends and acquaintances at the hospital. Saying goodbye to Victor, however temporarily, would be one of the hardest things he ever had to do. Unless something alarming showed up on Sherlock's follow-up scans in the coming months, he was completely done with treatment. Any interaction he had with Victor from this point on would have to be planned out and agreed upon. No more impromptu visits in the middle of the day or night, no more comparing drug doses to see who was technically stronger, and no more guessing which doctor was having an affair with which nurse.

"I'm going to miss you," Victor said on the eve of Sherlock's discharge. "What will I do without you, Singlefoot?"

"You'll manage. But I'll miss you too," Sherlock responded. He laid his right hand on the new cast they'd put on Severus. He found he was mentally referring to it by that nickname more often, instead of thinking about it as 'the stump.' He'd wear this for about a month, when he'd switch to a plastic protector that would help shape it for eventual prosthesis use. It would be a long month ahead.

"Promise you'll keep me up to date on your progress?"

"Of course. And I expect the same from you."

"Okay. When I get out of here, I'm taking you shoe shopping. And you're going to demand half price."

"For the last time Victor, I don't need new shoes."

"But I just want to see the looks on their faces. So badly. I think it might cure my cancer, if I could just see the looks on their faces." He turned his head to the left to look at Sherlock; they were both lying on Sherlock's bed for lack of another spot. They barely fit, but neither felt much like sitting up or moving to a chair. Throughout the conversation, Sherlock listened to the faint, rhythmic whirring of oxygen from Victor's cannula. The sound was oddly soothing, though he suspected Victor found it irritating to no end. He turned to look Victor in the eye, their faces ridiculously close, and saw mock desperation in his gaze.

"If I thought that had any chance of working, I'd do it," he said earnestly. "But unfortunately, proposing ethical dilemmas to shoe retailers is not a plausible treatment option."

"How do you know? You've never tried it." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Victor was nothing if not persistent.

"And you've never tried taking a vow of silence for two months, so how do you know that wouldn't work?"

"Please, a vow of silence? That's ridiculous."

"You wouldn't last two hours, much less two months."

"So what? I like to talk."

"So I've noticed."

"Hey. Somebody's got to be the chatty friend, and it's certainly not you."

"Words are like butter. They should be spread sparingly to avoid gluttony."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Yes it does," Sherlock argued. Mycroft had once said that exact thing to him, and Mycroft always made sense.

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does. End of discussion. We could go back and forth all night, and that is not something I have any desire to do."

"Fine. I'll agree to end the discussion, but not to the coherence of that analogy."

"Agree to disagree?"

"Agree to disagree," Victor relented. They shook hands to the best of their ability from the awkward position. After a short pause, Victor asked, "What's the first thing you're going to do when you get home?"

"I dunno," Sherlock admitted. As much as he'd thought about this day, he hadn't really planned it out. Logically, the first thing he'd do is sit down because he'd be exhausted from all the commotion, but Victor obviously meant the first meaningful thing he'd do. And he didn't know exactly what that was.

"I think you should go into your closet, take all your right shoes, and destroy them," Victor said flatly. He sounded like a mad scientist planning world domination.

"I'm not going to be Singlefoot forever. I will eventually need right shoes again, so I can't just rip them to shreds."

"Fine. What about shortening your trousers?"

"Again; I'll eventually need full-length again, so it would be pretty wasteful. Mycroft sent a few pairs to our tailor to be shortened and widened, but I won't be maiming all of them."

"You have a tailor?"

"You don't?"

"No. I just buy clothes that fit, and don't buy clothes that don't fit. Isn't that what most people do?"

"Why settle for only the clothes that fit when you can make any of them fit?"

"There you go again, sounding like a sociopath."

"There are worse things to sound like."

"Like what?"

"A cat in a woodchipper."

"Ugh! Why is that the first example to come to you mind?"

"I dunno. I figured it would sound pretty awful."

"Yeah, no kidding. But how would a cat even end up in a woodchipper?"

"It chased a mouse."

"And how did the mouse end up in a woodchipper?"

"It chased some cheese. And please don't ask how the cheese ended up in the woodchipper because I don't know the answer. People do strange things sometimes."

"Yeah, like have long conversations about the circumstances leading to a cat being shred in a woodchipper."

"I didn't say the woodchipper was on."

"Then why would it sound so bad?"

"The cat's scared because it's dark inside the woodchipper and it can't find its way out, so it just makes horrible mewling noises. Why did you immediately assume I was talking about actively shredding a cat? That's terrible."

"When you say woodchipper, most people assume it's a live woodchipper! And a cat being shredded alive is bound to sound awful."

"Not for long," Sherlock huffed. Victor shoved him hard enough that he nearly fell out of bed, so Sherlock shoved him back. It nearly turned into a full-blown wrestling match, but they were interrupted. Sherlock could feel the cold disapproval radiating from the newly-arrived figure before he saw who it was.

"Please inform me of what I've just walked in on before I jump to an erroneous conclusion." Victor scrambled to standing beside the bed so quickly he might've broken the sound barrier. Sherlock used his arms to yank himself to a sitting position and felt himself blush. Mycroft eyed the both of them suspiciously.

"We were arguing," Sherlock explained. He knew what it must've looked like, but they were honestly just roughhousing like teenagers.

"About cats in woodchippers," Victor added.

"I'm not even going to ask," Mycroft decided. Victor bade Sherlock goodbye once more and scurried out of the room. Mycroft sighed and looked at Sherlock exasperatedly.

"Are you excited to regain your housemate?" Sherlock asked, hoping to change the subject.

"I can hardly contain myself," he said tersely.

"I'm sure. You must love being pseudo-parent to your little brother."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed. Sherlock made these types of comments often, restating the fact that he was a burden, and Mycroft always disproved. "Looking after you has never been a chore."

"I know. If it was, you would've foisted me off on Mummy and Dad ages ago."

"I truly am looking forward to having you home and healthy."

"I'm looking forward to being home and healthy."

"I'm sure you are. Everything is in order for the trip home tomorrow. I suggest you get some sleep tonight before the hustle and bustle of tomorrow."

"Alright. Are you staying here all night?"

"I plan to."

"You should go home and rest," Sherlock suggested. He could see in the bags beneath his brother's eyes that work had been particularly busy lately. He didn't understand how his brother could juggle so much at once, but he somehow managed it. Maybe he had an identical twin who managed half his workload for him. No, it was probably an illegal clone. That was more Mycroft's style. Why were his thoughts all over the place lately? First it was cats in woodchippers, now illegal clones. Maybe being here so long was starting to mess with his head. Now he was even more eager to finally escape.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I can manage another night without you, though I appreciate you offering to stay." Sherlock was rarely this polite with his brother, but in that moment he felt incredibly guilty due to the sheer degree of the sacrifices his brother had made for him over the past year. He saw poorly-concealed relief cross Mycroft's features before the indifferent mask returned.

"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow, brother mine."

"See you tomorrow," Sherlock yawned, finally realizing how tired he was. He turned his head to the side—rolling over was still difficult, especially with the fresh skin graft wound—and closed his eyes. He listened to Mycroft shuffle about to pack up more things before vacating the room. After that, he was lulled to sleep by the background noise of the hospital.

~0~

The process of leaving was more difficult and exhausting than Sherlock ever expected, due to the sheer amount of stuff that had accumulated in the room since his last admittance. He tried to help pack as much as he could, but he wasn't much help since his arms were occupied whenever he was standing. Mycroft and a few of his hired hands did most of the work, with Sherlock mostly watching passively. Since his assistance wasn't really needed, he decided to take a walk around the hospital to pass the time.

He started by making a lap of the familiar oncology ward, greeting the staff he knew and saying farewell since he'd be leaving today. A few, including Anne, offered him a hug, which he attempted to reciprocate. He continued around, taking in the familiar sights, smells, and sounds. He covered every floor, stopping only briefly to give his arms a rest.

Eventually, he found himself in another ambiguous hallway. Most of the corridors in the hospital looked the same, distinguishable only by the numbers on the doors. He hopped down the hall, but stopped in his tracks when he heard a noise ahead. He saw a wheelchair roll past in an adjoining hallway ahead, and its occupant turned his head to stare at him. The man had short, sandy brown hair, but that was about all Sherlock could observe from this distance. That, and the fact that his gaze settled firmly on the casted stump. Until he could reasonably disguise it, that missing piece was the first thing any stranger would see upon glancing at him. Sherlock sighed, turned around, and continued his rounds.

By the time he toured the entire hospital, Mycroft and his goons had finished. "Where did you go?" Mycroft inquired.

"Around," Sherlock replied vaguely. He didn't need to reveal that he'd wanted to say goodbye to the hospital that had been his home for so long. Fortunately, his brother accepted this answer without further questions. Victor stopped in one last time, and Sherlock hurled his crutches to the ground in order to properly hug his best friend.

"Geez, you're being discharged, not dying," Victor remarked, though he returned the embrace with equal strength. With everything taken care of, Sherlock was wheeled out to Mycroft's waiting car. He made the transfer himself, figuring it out as he went because he'd never practiced before. Mycroft climbed in next to him and let one of the henchmen drive. The ride home passed in silence, Sherlock watching outside the window the entire time. Something about the city seemed brighter now that he was headed toward freedom.

They arrived sooner than he expected. Mycroft's massive house loomed at the end of a pompously long driveway. In Sherlock's opinion that house perfectly embodied the personality of its owner: prudish and overbearing. One of Mycroft's helpers handed Sherlock back his crutches, and he stepped out of the car and towards the front door. Mycroft followed swiftly behind with the keys, unlocking and opening the door to allow Sherlock to enter. He made straight for his bedroom, located on the first floor to better suit his needs. He'd stayed in this room since his diagnosis, though one could hardly tell it belonged to any particular person. During treatment, they needed to be ready to leave for the hospital at any given time, so Sherlock hadn't really bothered to make his room look like a permanent settlement. That could be a project he worked on now that he had free time on his hands; officially moving in to a room he'd inhabited for nearly a year.

"Sherlock, where'd you go?" Mycroft's voice rang out from the grand foyer.

"Bedroom," he called. His brother stopped in and let the henchmen drop off all the bags from the hospital. Now he could actually unpack them fully instead of leaving necessities behind in case a quick departure was necessary. Life with cancer was almost like life on the run; always looking over your shoulder, taking everything you hear with a grain of salt, and being ready to up and run at the drop of a hat if something goes wrong. Hopefully, that part of his life was over for good. He wouldn't be sure until his three-months scans, which weren't for another month and a half. Until then, all he could do was wait and worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Victor's ridiculous conversations might be my favorite thing to write from this entire story. I had way too much fun with the 'cat in a woodchipper' dialogue.


	10. The Bees Knees

Sherlock awoke that first morning facing, not the stark white ceiling he'd grown accustomed to, but the pale brown of his own room in Mycroft's house. It disoriented him, temporarily erasing the past month from his memory. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and planted his feet on the floor to stand up. Except, of course, he'd forgotten he didn't have two feet. He swayed for a brief second before toppling over, barely managing to catch himself on the bedside table and avoid falling to the floor. Just his luck, the jarring movement sent the lamp teetering, and it fell off the table and shattered with a loud crash.

He heard Mycroft's footsteps, moving at a far faster pace than he'd ever heard before. Sherlock pulled himself up and sat back down on the bed before his brother burst into the room panting.

"What's wrong?" he asked, scanning the room for signs of danger. His gaze settled on the shards beside the table and then flitted back to Sherlock.

"I fell," he admitted. "Knocked the lamp over."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"How did you fall?"

"I dunno. I just sorta… forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"That I can't just wake up and hop out of bed like a normal person anymore." Mycroft pursed his lips and frowned concernedly. He didn't ask further questions, apparently accepting that simply forgetting was a possibility in Sherlock's situation.

"Are you sure you're alright? You didn't hit anything?"

"'M fine," Sherlock growled, wanting to be left alone. Mycroft nodded once and swept out of the room.

"Don't step on any of the broken pieces," he warned. "I'll clean them up later."

Sherlock didn't deign to acknowledge his warning, just glared after him until he shut the door behind him. How could he be stupid enough to forget something like that? It certainly should've sunk in by now that he couldn't do things other people could do easily. He put it off to the old/new environment of Mycroft's home; he hadn't stayed here since he still had two legs.

Sighing, he grabbed one crutch and used it for balance while he pulled out clothes for the day. Getting dressed was a task that had required tips from occupational therapy to learn. He'd mastered it by now, and got ready in only a few minutes. He picked up the other crutch and met Mycroft in the kitchen, being careful not to step on broken lamp pieces on his way out.

Mycroft had made breakfast for two, leaving Sherlock a plate at the empty seat across from him. He sat down and reluctantly picked at it, but a glare from Mycroft forced him to clean the plate. He understood on a basic level that nutrition was important to healing, he just found eating boring and not worth his time. Mycroft nursed a mug of coffee while reading yesterday's newspaper.

"No work today?" Sherlock inquired. It was a bit odd to see Mycroft enjoy a quiet morning at home like this.

"I requested not to be bothered unless absolutely necessary. My presence is required more urgently here."

"I need you urgently? Since when?"

"I didn't want your first day home to be spent entirely alone. Unless you'd prefer it so?"

Sherlock pondered this for a moment. He didn't adore the idea of spending the day with Mycroft around, but he hadn't had time to get used to maneuvering here, and there was always a chance he'd run into trouble. Knowing someone would hear him scream was a necessary reassurance. "Stay," Sherlock requested.

"Alright." Mycroft flipped the page flamboyantly and took another sip. Growing bored, Sherlock stood up and settled in the living room instead. He looked around the room, re-internalizing everything on the shelves and on the walls. His bookshelves were hopelessly boring, containing only classics like Moby Dick and the complete works of Shakespeare. Sherlock didn't think Mycroft ever actually read, he just used them for decoration to make himself seem more austere. His choice of décor was hopelessly outdated, and the house felt like the setting of a Jane Austen novel.

Sherlock turned his focus to the grounds outside the nearest window. In the distance, he could see the beehives. They were the only thing Sherlock didn't dislike about this house, and maybe that was because they were technically his and not Mycroft's. Sherlock loved bees, and had ever since he was a child. He wanted to go outside to be with them, but he knew Mycroft wouldn't approve. He couldn't just walk out the door without drawing attention to himself, so he snuck back to his bedroom as quietly as possible.

He opened his sock drawer and stared down at his perfectly organized index. He'd always insisted on keeping them perfectly in order. But the mere sight of them lying so neatly in pairs disgusted him. His socks may be properly sorted, but his body was not even close. The physical turmoil of the past year or so had ruined him. He snatched a single left sock from the drawer and slammed it closed before he could start crying. He tried to remind himself that he would eventually use right socks again, when the stump had healed and the bones had fused enough for him to bear weight and use a prosthetic. Time would fix this.

His shoes gave him a similar reaction, lying innocently on the floor of his closet in neat pairs. He didn't allow himself to dwell on them, just picked one up and sat down on the bed to put it on. He leaned his crutches against the wall and worked the bedroom window open. It was supposed to have a screen, but Sherlock had removed it ages ago to provide him access to the outside world without having to pass Mycroft and his surveillance. In the heart of treatment, Mycroft hadn't wanted him to go anywhere for fear he'd contract an infection, but Sherlock physically could not handle being cooped up inside for that long. He'd felt like a prisoner confined for an indeterminate sentence.

He slid the window open, passed his crutches through, and leaned them against the exterior wall. Next, he swung his stump through, sat sideways on the windowsill, then put his good leg through. It was a process he'd done many times before, and he found it surprisingly easier with a stump than with a full-length leg that didn't work properly. He picked up the crutches and set off for the hives in the distance.

The area around the hives was easily accessible—Mycroft had made sure of that—and Sherlock maneuvered to his favorite spot. He stood several feet away from the main entrance of the largest hive, watching worker bees flitter busily in and out. The phrase 'busy as a bee' was certainly based in truth; the hive was never devoid of activity. Sherlock could relate to the bees, as he himself liked to be constantly on the move and working on something worthwhile. He'd been nonstop get-up-and-go until the pain from the tumor and fatigue from the chemo had forced him to slow down. He'd tried to keep the pace up in the first few weeks, but it had proved impossible. He watched the world keep turning while he fell behind on an infinitely slower rotation.

There was no bench out here with the bees, but Sherlock's arms and leg were growing fatigued, so he eased himself down to sit right there in the grass. He listened to the background noise of bees buzzing and birds chirping, breathing in the fresh air. His lungs certainly appreciated the lack of antiseptic smell they'd been forced to endure for so long.

He remembered the day these hives had come to Mycroft's estate. Sherlock had just been diagnosed and forced into moving in with his brother. He had protested vehemently, but neither his parents nor Mycroft would permit any other accommodations. "Brother mine, you must accept that you're going to need rather a lot of help in the coming months," Mycroft had told him gently. Sherlock had wanted to scream and punch him right then and there, but deep down he knew they were right. He couldn't hope to manage living on his own in the face of what was to come.

The beehives had been somewhat of a consolation gift, but Sherlock appreciated them nonetheless. Mycroft had led him blindfolded out onto the grounds—Sherlock could still walk at that point, limping and in pain, but able—and revealed them dramatically. Ever since then, caring for the bees had been Sherlock's responsibility. Well, only partially. Mycroft hired someone to maintain them when Sherlock was otherwise occupied, which was often. Despite this, Sherlock appreciated having a purpose beyond being a burden on his brother, though he'd never told Mycroft this. Often times, he'd just sat out here among the bees and listened to their hustle and bustle. It helped distract him from the aches and pains that had constantly plagued him during that time.

Harvesting honey had been his favorite thing in the world. It was reaping the benefits of all his, the bees, and the paid caretaker's efforts. He'd pulled himself out of bed through the worst of chemo fatigue for a harvest. He sighed despairingly, wondering how he could do it now that both his hands were constantly occupied in keeping him standing upright. He couldn't hobble on one foot long enough to remove the honeycomb and extract honey, and sitting down he'd be too short to reach.

That's when the idea struck him: he needed to devise a method of harvesting honey that didn't require two hands. That could be his project while he played this agonizing waiting game of letting his wounds heal. He gathered himself and pushed up from the ground with some difficulty, having not practiced the skill much before. He headed back to the house and snuck back in through his bedroom window. He turned around to close the window behind him, when he heard a distinct throat-clearing. Busted.

"What are you doing, brother?" Mycroft asked exasperatedly. "I can't take my eyes off you for ten minutes, can I?"

"I just went outside to be with the bees," Sherlock explained truthfully. "I missed them."

"You… missed the bees?"

"Yes."

"That still doesn't explain why you're sneaking through windows like some sort of secret agent."

"I thought if you saw me leave you'd try to stop me. Am I wrong?"

Mycroft massaged his temples with his forefinger and thumb, his exasperation clearly building. "No, you are not wrong in that respect. But did you ever stop to consider why I would try to stop you?"

"I'm essentially your prisoner here. You don't want a jailbreak on your hands."

"Sherlock, you are not in prison here. This is a home, your home. I want you inside because you're supposed to be resting."

"Resting is boring."

"I know that. I know you're eager to get going, but you need time to heal before you can just jump back into your old routine."

"I'm not jumping back into anything," Sherlock hissed. He made sure to emphasize Mycroft's use of the word 'jump.' "I just wanted to do something normal, something on my terms, is that so wrong?"

"No, Sherlock, it's not. I just… worry about you, especially after this morning. This is an adjustment period, not just for you."

"Oh please, don't pretend your life is dramatically affected by this."

"I'm not pretending." Mycroft raised his voice, and Sherlock sensed he'd struck a nerve. "By no means am I saying that my loss is comparable to yours—it's not—but that doesn't mean I'm unaffected by my little brother losing a leg. I worry about you, about your future."

"You just fear I'll end up living with you forever. You don't want that burden."

"You are both right and wrong. I do fear you'll stay here forever. Not because I want you gone, but because I know you want to be gone. I want you to have your independence back almost as much as you want it for yourself. And if something happened to you on my watch, something that delays or prevents that return to normalcy, I don't think I'll ever forgive myself."

Sherlock couldn't respond, as he didn't know what he could say to an admission like that. One of the reasons he hated staying at his brother's house was that he didn't want Mycroft burdened by the responsibility of looking after him. He'd built a prosperous career for himself, and Sherlock's illness held him back from reaching his full potential in that field. He'd sacrificed so much to step up and care for Sherlock so their parents wouldn't have to, and that was a debt Sherlock could never hope to repay.

Without Sherlock's permission, tears started falling. He didn't particularly know why, whether it was stress, despair, or relief, but he couldn't stop them. Next thing he knew, Mycroft's arms were wrapped around him in a ferocious hug. He trusted Mycroft's embrace to keep him upright and let go of his crutches to reciprocate. They stood in the middle of the room for who-knows-how-long, neither wanting to let go. Sherlock considered everything Mycroft had done to ensure he made it through this alive; finding the best oncologists and surgeons in the country, coaxing him to eat when he wouldn't listen to any of the nurses, rubbing his back while he heaved and retched at ungodly hours of the morning, and being on constant alert during the short intervals he was allowed home between doses. His brain made a rough calculation of the number of hours of sleep Mycroft had lost because of Sherlock, and a choked sob escaped him when he reached a sum. This year had been the worst of their lives, unchallenged even by the year over a decade ago in which they lost all four of their grandparents.

"Why don't we sit and watch a film together?" Mycroft suggested. He stepped back a bit and held Sherlock by the shoulders so he could look him in the eye. Sherlock wobbled a little at the loss of support, but got his crutches underneath him again and nodded in acquiescence. Mycroft led the way to the cinema; he had an old-fashioned projector, and he never watched anything except authentic tapes of old black-and-white movies. He let Sherlock choose, something he never did when they were younger. Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a bag of licorice allsorts, one of Sherlock's favorite candies when he was a child.

"Put the footrest up," Mycroft instructed.

"Why?" Sherlock hated reclining, preferring to tuck his knees into his chest. Although, the current cast prevented his right knee from bending at all.

"You're supposed to keep it elevated, help the swelling go down." Right. Sherlock had all but forgotten about that particular discharge instruction. Reluctantly, he pulled the lever and the chair reclined. However, he compromised and pulled his left foot in close.

"Don't call it 'it,'" Sherlock said. "It makes it sound like you're afraid to say what it really is: a stump."

"Then what do you suggest I say?"

"Victor made me give it a name. I call it Severus."

"After Emperor Septimius Severus or after Severus Snape?"

"Neither, really. I chose it for its resemblance to the word 'sever.'"

"How macabre," Mycroft remarked.

"That's what I was going for," Sherlock chuckled, popping a candy into his mouth victoriously. They both enjoyed the movie, and Sherlock would resolutely deny that he fell asleep halfway through.


	11. Socks

Things soon reached a steady, if boring, equilibrium. Mycroft spent more and more time at work as Sherlock acclimated to living at home and learned to do things independently. He spent most of his own time working diligently on the project of accessible honey harvest. Mycroft set up a table in a spare room, and Sherlock turned it into a drafting station. It was littered with sketches, crumpled up sheets of paper, and various reference books, but Sherlock didn't need an organized work space to know where everything was. He was allowed to work as long as he wanted, as long as he did it seated in his wheelchair with Severus properly elevated. Those had been Mycroft's conditions, and Sherlock had been forced to agree. The system forced him to take breaks—he suspected Mycroft had designed it that way—because he couldn't handle being seated for more than two hours without growing restless.

Two weeks after coming home, he finalized a design for new hives that would make harvesting the honey as easy as flipping a switch. The hive would consist of partial hexagons, which the bees would complete with their wax. When the honey comb filled up, a key could be turned which would pull the premade sections out of alignment and break the comb, allowing the honey to flow downwards and out. If it was built properly, it would work, and no bees would be harmed in the process.

The next time Mycroft returned, Sherlock eagerly showed him the design. "The only problem is that I don't have the knowhow to actually build it. Can you help?" By help, he obviously meant could Mycroft find someone with the tools and training to construct it.

"Certainly," Mycroft stated. The very next day, two guys arrived at the door with tools and materials in tow, and Mycroft sent them outside to set up their workstation. He'd allowed Sherlock to brainstorm and draft indoors, but he would never allow a construction project to endanger his pristine furniture and knickknacks inside the house. Sherlock was already waiting with his detailed blueprints. After a long debate, he decided to use the wheelchair instead of crutches so he'd have his hands free to direct Mycroft's hires in their construction of his design. He watched their gazes linger on Severus for far longer than was necessary, but he pretended not to notice. He'd have to get good at that if he didn't want to live the rest of his life hating humanity even more than he already did.

It took them the better part of the day to build one and set it up. They then smoked out one of the existing hives until all the worker bees fled and transferred the queen to the new hive. They wouldn't be able to test it until the bees had time to fill in the holes and produce honey, but Sherlock was positive it would work. He'd designed it himself, accounting for everything.

Once that project was finished, he quickly grew bored. He needed something else to do to save him from the tedium of existence. He didn't have as much time on his hands as one would think, since everyday routines took so much longer, but he still spent far too much time sitting around and staring at walls. On the bright side, he'd figured out showering. He had to duct tape a trash bag over the cast to keep it dry, but it was well worth it to be decently clean. For too long, he'd been too chronically exhausted to shower as long as he liked. Now that he actually had the energy, he'd spend nearly an hour under the hot spray. Mycroft had bought him a shower chair, because the only alternative was sitting on the floor, and Sherlock certainly didn't want to do that.

For the most part, he was content with his independence level. Stairs still gave him trouble, but he had little reason to venture upstairs in Mycroft's house. He forced himself to go up and down at least once a day for practice, but he always took it overly slow to avoid another fall. His biggest complaint was, inevitably, the boredom.

About two and a half weeks after his discharge, he got a call from Victor. His phone had distinct ringtones for only a few people: Mycroft, his mother, and Victor. When he heard Victor's tone, he hopped over to the table where his mobile lay as fast as he possibly could and picked up. He'd been waiting to hear from his friend for ages, but had been unwilling to pick up the phone and call him.

"Hey Singlefoot!" Victor's voice greeted. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Victor had said that was only a preliminary nickname, and that he'd been working up to a better one, but apparently 'Singlefoot' had stuck.

"Hi Victor. How are you?"

"I'm phenomenal, actually. Only one dose to go, and I'm done."

"Really? That's great!"

"Yes. I got discharged about a week after you left."

"Anything exciting happen in that interval?"

"Not really. But apparently you just barely missed meeting your mirror twin."

"Mirror twin?"

"I heard Anne talking about a new patient who lost his left leg."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I wonder if you would've gotten along, like a yin and yang sort of thing."

"I dunno." Honestly, Sherlock was glad he'd been discharged before this guy arrived. If they'd met, he would've been expected to give wise advice on how to handle the disability and disfigurement, and that was not something he was equipped to do. "How's Ophelia?" Sherlock asked. The little girl had made quite an impression on him, and he hoped she had kicked cancer's ass for the second time around.

"She's in remission again. Doing some pretty intense PT to improve her walking. Can you imagine having to retrain your brain to use your ankle backwards?"

"No, I can't." Sherlock already had his work cut out for him to learn to walk again. He didn't want to consider that it could have been even more complicated.

"How are things over there? Mycroft driving you up the wall?"

"Not really. He's actually been great. I designed new beehives that will make harvesting honey easier both for me and for the bees."

"You have bees at your house?"

"Yes. Mycroft got them for me, to give me something to do. They pollinate his garden, feed him fresh honey, and keep his little brother out of his hair."

"Sounds like a win-win. You ever been stung?"

"Of course, a few times. By now I know what to do and what not to do. They recognize that I'm not a threat."

"They recognize you?"

"Yes. They're used to me."

"Wish I could say the same," Victor quipped.

"You're hilarious. I really missed being insulted every few minutes."

"I'm sure you did. Anyway, I gotta run. Talk again soon?"

"Yeah. I'll call you next time, okay?"

"Sure. Bye."

"Bye."

Sherlock hung up and flopped down on the sofa. As much as he hated to admit it, he really missed Victor. He missed having a friend his own age who understood almost exactly what he was going through. Mycroft was sympathetic, but he just didn't get it. Maybe Sherlock should invite Victor to come and stay here; there was certainly enough room. But Mycroft would never agree to a near-stranger living in his house, so Sherlock abandoned the idea. Besides, Victor had his own family and his own circle of friends to take care of him.

~0~

About a month after discharge, Sherlock returned to the hospital for the removal of the cast. His stomach roiled with a combination of excitement and nervousness. He hated being back inside those walls, even if it was just for a little while. There was no erasing all the horrible memories he'd made there.

Mycroft himself actually came with him, instead of just sending hired help. Sherlock didn't want to admit how relieved he was to have a familiar face beside him. The cast was sawed off relatively quickly, leaving the stump exposed in all its glory. Sherlock had already seen it at its worst, before the debridement and skin grafts, so he was undaunted. Mycroft, on the other hand, was facing his first full view of his brother's residual limb. Sherlock saw him bite his knuckle in an attempt to stifle a yelp.

"What did Severus ever do to you to deserve such treatment?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

"Nothing," Mycroft croaked, averting his gaze. Sherlock ran a hand slowly down his thigh, knee, and shin, feeling the ridges of scar tissue beneath his fingertips. His lower leg was about half the length it should be. Instead of tapering slowly to an ankle joint and ending with a foot and five toes, it ended abruptly. At the bottom, the skin graft site was a slightly different color than the rest of his skin and puckered at the edges. The entire limb was still swollen, and probably would remain so for several more weeks. Higher up on his thigh, the donor site from the skin graft remained angry red and painful looking, though it surprisingly didn't bother him at all. Below his knee, the scar from the first surgery was still visible, a faded red-brown line reminding him of that past battle.

They wanted to x-ray it to check on the healing process of the bones, and they seemed pleased enough with his progress. Not yet ready to start training with a prosthetic, but on track with where they'd predicted he'd be by this point. He was sent home with a new stump protector and instructions to start massaging it several times a day and working on bending his knee.

When they got home, Sherlock stared at the plastic stump protector with venom, already hating its existence. He should be happy. This was an important next step in treatment, it would actually increase his freedom, and truly wasn't all that different from wearing the cast like he'd done for so long. Maybe it was the fact that it forced him to have more intimate daily contact with Severus than he was used to. It had been hidden from his view for so long, and now he would see it up close and personal.

He also hated his new socks. Mycroft ordered them ages ago, but while still in the cast Sherlock had had no use for them. He hadn't even opened the package yet. That day, he finally did out of necessity. He opened his sock drawer and observed the careful index he'd spent so many years maintaining. He needed to rethink the entire organizational system to make room for this new type of sock. They were a different material and a different shape than any he already owned, so they wouldn't fit seamlessly into the existing array. In frustration, he pulled out every single pair and threw them to the ground.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring down at the previously sorted socks strewed everywhere. He placed the stack of newly-opened amputee socks beside him and put one on for the first time. Every move sent phantom tingles up and down his leg, and he missed being able to use the mirror. He picked up the plastic protector and slid it on, grimacing at the unfamiliar sensation. They'd marked how far to tighten it for the first few days and instructed him to gradually tighten it as much as he could tolerate, a prospect he wasn't eagerly awaiting.

He left the socks behind, having neither the energy nor the desire to clean them up, and crutched out to his workstation. Now that the beehive design had been finalized and constructed, he'd begun work on another passion project: classifying and identifying tobacco ash. His goal was 243 different types, and he was about one third of the way there. The table had gone from drafting station to chemistry lab in the course of a few days. Mycroft was willing to do just about anything Sherlock asked if it would keep him busy and not bouncing off the walls.

He explained and elaborated his findings on his blog: the Science of Deduction. He'd started it as a side-project in university, but hadn't had the time to experiment and write up everything he'd wanted to. Now was the perfect opportunity to finish; he didn't have anything better to do. The same rules still applied; he couldn't work standing and he had to take breaks, but he was glad for something to do even if he couldn't work uninterrupted as he usually preferred. Every minute he spent staring at burnt ash under a microscope he also spent hoping he'd heal up soon so the real work could begin.

~0~

His loathing of the plastic contraption only grew exponentially as the days passed. It exacerbated the phantom pain and it was just tight enough that he was hyperaware of its presence. Just when he grew accustomed to it and considered that it might not be so bad, he tightened it and started right back at square one. He would have given up if it hadn't been reiterated many, many times that this process was crucial to ensuring the stump was the right shape for prosthetic attachment. He'd take any amount of pain and discomfort not to jeopardize that.

Massage wasn't nearly as painful as he'd feared it might be, though it was unpleasant for other reasons. He didn't like having to stare at Severus so intently, reinforcing that this was an irrevocable part of him, and the phantom pains always spiked when his finger struck a certain spot. Bending his knee proved more difficult than he'd hoped; it was stiff and slow to move from being locked straight in a cast for so long, and the swelling certainly didn't help matters anyway. His knee joint itself hadn't been affected by the cancer, but the lack of weight bearing from the pain caused by the tumor and after the first surgery had weakened it dramatically.

His life became a rut: sleep, eat when Mycroft reminded (forced) him, work with his ashes, massage, and shower (finally without having to strap a plastic bag on first!) He just wanted this phase to be over already so he could start the real work, but the day never seemed to get any closer. He needed approval from Dr. Whittaker before he was allowed to consult a prosthetist, approval he wasn't going to get for at least another few weeks. Every day, he reminded himself why he was doing this, and how it was frankly a miracle he was even still alive. He thought about the countless people he'd met while in treatment, many of whom didn't survive. Sherlock certainly hadn't escaped unscathed, but he'd escaped. Many weren't so lucky.

~0~

"Scanxiety. Help. SH"

Sherlock sent that text to Victor at three o'clock in the morning of the day he was scheduled for his three-months-post-treatment scans. It wasn't the prospect of enduring the scans themselves, but the gravity of the eventual results that had rendered him unable to sleep or even lie still for the past four hours. He certainly couldn't wake Mycroft, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to offer anything beyond meaningless consolation. Victor was his only hope for an outlet.

He only slightly regretted texting him at three a.m. Victor didn't have normal sleep patterns anyway. However, as three thirty rolled around he began to lose hope that Victor was awake and willing to talk. And then, he saw the ellipsis. He breathed a sigh of relief and waited for Victor's wisdom to set him straight.

"New phone, who dis?" came his reply. Sherlock would have throttled him had he been within strangling distance. As it stood, he could only tighten his grip on his mobile and growl in frustration. He could picture Victor laughing obnoxiously at his own joke and at Sherlock's exasperation, and the mental image actually made him smile. For a second, he forgot about what would transpire tomorrow while he pondered which poison he should sneak into Victor's tea the next time he saw him.

"Surprisingly helpful," Sherlock typed, letting Victor know that his ridiculous humor was appreciated.

"Really? Thought I might've upset you," he responded.

"Nah."

"Scanxiety, huh? We've all been there." Scanxiety was a rather obvious portmanteau that the cancer community used to refer to the crushing terror experienced while waiting for results of scans that would show if the disease had once again reared its ugly head. Much more than anxiety, it was agony, wondering if the next months would be spent in continued health, in and out of hospital for more treatment, or in palliative care. All three were potential outcomes.

"What do I do?"

"Take a deep breath. Not all of us have the luxury."

"Now is not the time for self-deprecating lung cancer jokes." Sherlock typed furiously, his nerves propelling his fingers to dance even faster across the screen than they normally could. He always used proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation, even in texts. He hated those stupid abbreviations almost as much as he hated emojis.

"It's always time for self deprecating lung cancer jokes when you have lung cancer," Victor texted back. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Maybe I'll be joining you in that club."

"Not the outlook you want to have."

"I know that. So help me change it." Sherlock could almost hear Victor sigh and begin racking his brain for something supportive to say.

"S, there is no possible way to predict the outcome of these things." That was his first text, but he sent several more in succession:

"No amount of dwelling on it will improve or at all affect what happens."

"So you shouldn't waste your brainpower or your energy fretting about something you can't change."

"Odds are in your favor; they completely removed the tumor with clean margins, remember?"

"Worst comes to worst, I'll be there for you every step of the way." Sherlock noticed that he didn't explicitly say, 'if it turns out you relapsed,' and silently thanked him for that. He didn't want to see those words in print, even preceded by a conditional 'if.'

"You beat this once, you'll do it again if you have to."

"Thanks," Sherlock wrote back. He felt the tension easing out of him with every text of Victor's he read. "I knew you'd know what to say."

"Any time. Though you clearly already knew that. Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes. Did I wake you?"

"Nope." Sherlock didn't bother to ask why he was already awake at that time, knowing he probably wouldn't like the answer.

"I'm going to try and sleep now. I'll let you know when I get results."

"You'd better. Night."

"Goodnight. SH."


	12. Stress

Sherlock skipped breakfast—no eating six hours prior, and low-carbohydrate for twenty four hours prior—and tried to quell his still-raging nerves by pacing back and forth on his crutches while he waited for Mycroft to get ready to leave. Periodically he would stop to guzzle water from a glass he left on the table for this very purpose. He considered the mandatory water intake the most irksome part of undergoing a PET scan. At last, Mycroft emerged from his own room and opened the front door to show Sherlock out. His driver took them to the hospital, and the ride passed in complete silence.

Sherlock knew Mycroft experienced a certain degree of vicarious scanxiety, especially given their latest heart-to-heart. He could see his brother drumming his fingers on his knee like he always did when he was nervous. Sherlock quelled his own nervous tics, a skill he'd learned in primary school. He hated to draw attention to himself when he was uncomfortable, so he fidgeted on the inside and kept his appearance stoic. For the most part, it worked, but not with Mycroft.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft inquired, ceasing his finger tapping long enough to ask after Sherlock's own mental state.

"Not really," he admitted. Victor's words had certainly helped, and he'd managed two hours of sleep, but nothing could completely eradicate the worry.

"Do you need to talk about it?"

"No." Speaking it aloud would only make it that much more of a reality. Nothing Mycroft could say would help any more than Victor already had. Sherlock was content to ride out this state of anxiety for the majority of the week while they awaited results. They arrived and Mycroft handled signing in while Sherlock sat and waited. He spent the time counting the number of gazes that lingered on him, and reached a grand total of fourteen before his name was called. How many people had set foot in the room during that time? Fourteen.

"Now the fun part," he thought to himself sardonically. He knew the drill, and he knew he despised every single step. First blood draws. Then, it took an evidently inexperienced nurse three tries to get an IV line in. He bit back several scathing remarks about her aptitude in her chosen field by literally biting the inside of his cheek. Next, he sat still for an entire hour and a half waiting for the tracer to distribute. He used to do this of his own accord whenever he was deep in thought, sit without moving for hours on end, but doing so because he was required to was hateful. He spent the time proofreading his latest blog entries, but there was nothing to fix, as usual. Just before he considered ripping the line out himself, it was time for the scan itself. Another hour of lying completely still… Sherlock couldn't think of anything that could possibly be more fun. Except maybe hugging a cactus, sticking a fork in an electrical outlet, or walking on LEGOs barefoot.

With nothing more than his thoughts for company, Sherlock's anxiety skyrocketed. His mind played him a vivid movie about the radiologist who would eventually look at these scans: he woke up every day, made himself tea, and went to work. Most days were unremarkable. Another day, another tumor. This day seemed like any other day, and he pulled up the scans of a one S Holmes. Just another name for him, a man who saw the livelihoods of hundreds of patients pass before his eyes. This scan piqued his interest because the subject lacked a right foot, and he paused his work routine long enough to pity this poor man. Then he went to work, and chewed on the end of his pen like he always did when he saw images he didn't like. Actually, images he did like. Some part of him enjoyed making such important discoveries, even if they meant bad news for the subjects of the images. He was removed from the situation, unable to feel a personal attachment to every image he saw without driving himself crazy. This particular image struck him, not just for the single-legged state of the patient, but for the sheer severity of what he now saw: cancer that nearly outnumbered the healthy tissue. He felt bad for whoever would be charged with breaking this news to S Holmes, but at least it wouldn't be him. He spent a few more minutes scanning the image, marveling at the damage a simple cell cycle interruption could inflict, before moving on to the next one.

Sherlock blinked furiously to chase the thought away. Like Victor said, no amount of pondering could possibly change the outcome. Imagining the life of the radiologist discovering his catastrophic relapse—one that might not even happen—served no purpose except to stress him out unnecessarily. He took a deep breath and tried to refocus his thoughts elsewhere. He ran through his types of tobacco ash, picturing each in his mind and listing the definitive characteristics. He got through 74 types before the scan finally finished.

After that, he was treated to a chest CT. He'd had a few small metastases there, and they wanted to cover all their bases. Compared to the previous scan, this took no time at all. By the time it was over, Sherlock was eager to just go home and sleep. He'd been up nearly all last night, and it was catching up to him. He used to be able to stay up for three or four days on end with minimal effect, but not anymore. He barely had the energy to crutch himself back to Mycroft's waiting car. He practically collapsed against the seat, and Mycroft hopped in next to him. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why he came along, but he appreciated his brother's presence nonetheless.

Sherlock definitely dozed for a few minutes, but Mycroft roused him when they arrived back home. Mycroft hovered annoyingly close as he traversed the walkway; Sherlock suspected he was afraid that he would stumble with his exhaustion. He didn't, fortunately, and tucked himself into bed. "What time did you fall asleep?" he heard Mycroft's voice ask, though he'd already closed his eyes.

"'Round four," he muttered. His brother didn't reply, but Sherlock could feel the concern radiating off of him like heat from a fire. He left the room, and Sherlock nearly fell asleep, but Mycroft soon returned and plopped a glass of water on the bedside table.

"Sherlock, you can sleep once you finish this." He groaned, not wanting to swallow another drop, but he knew Mycroft wouldn't let him do anything until he'd followed instructions. He needed to clear the radioactive tracer as soon as possible, and this was the only way to do so. He dragged himself to a sitting position and downed the glass as fast as he could handle. "At least two more when you wake up," Mycroft reminded him. Sherlock only grunted.

He fell asleep almost instantly when his head once again hit the pillow. Fortunately, his subconscious rewarded him with a dreamless sleep. An indeterminate amount of time had passed when he awoke to find another full glass sitting on his bedside table. He silently thanked Mycroft for providing them, because he didn't possess the motivation to actively fill them himself. He barely had the motivation to drink them. He finished that glass before hobbling into the bathroom to pass the two he'd drank prior to going for scans. Then he collapsed back into bed for another two-hour nap.

~0~

Sherlock and Mycroft spent the next few days in a heightened state of uneasiness, awaiting the results that would determine Sherlock's fate. Neither addressed the palpable tension in the house, but they could both feel it pulsating from floor to ceiling. Every sudden text tone made Sherlock jump nearly out of his skin, even though he knew nothing important would be relayed via text. Besides that, it was Mycroft they would contact first, per Sherlock's insistence. Should the worst happen, he didn't trust himself not to break down, and he didn't want to do that in front of a stranger.

A few days after scan day, results arrived. Sherlock was working at his table to distract himself when Mycroft marched into the room with something on his mind. Sherlock could tell from the look on his face that he knew something. He turned his chair to face his brother, holding his breath in anticipation. He scanned Mycroft's features for any sign of concealing good versus bad news, but couldn't glean anything. Sherlock wheeled himself a little bit closer so he was forced to look up at Mycroft. He normally hated being seated and beneath a standing person, but in this situation he recognized both his role as the ailing younger brother and Mycroft's as the man with the answers. Mycroft would be more comfortable delivering this looking down at him, not up.

"Mycroft, you're making this worse by hesitating," Sherlock informed him.

"Apologies. I'm struggling to find the proper phrasing," he explained. That certainly didn't sound good. Sherlock blanched, wondering how dire his prognosis. Mycroft clearly noticed his waxing pallor, and he cleared his throat nervously.

"Out with it," Sherlock insisted. He ran a hand through his hair—still too short for his liking—and tangled his fingers through it, pulling gently. The tension somewhat soothed him.

"Sherlock, you're fine." At first, he thought this was a placation, a statement to pacify him like one would use for a dog panicking during a thunderstorm. Then he saw the slight smile cross Mycroft's face, and he realized the true meaning behind that statement. "Scans were totally clear," Mycroft reiterated. Sherlock literally sagged with relief. All the tension that had built up in his mind and body over the past week evaporated instantly, and he thought he might float away. Mycroft took a few steps closer to deliver and unsolicited, but not unwelcome, embrace. Sherlock returned it wholeheartedly, and a few tears of joy escaped his eyes.

"You're fine," Mycroft repeated. "You're fine." It wasn't a platitude, but a much-needed reassurance. It would become their go-to phrase anytime Sherlock overthought or faced a particularly trying obstacle. Two simple words that meant the world to someone who, for so long, had been anything but fine.

~0~

"All clear," he texted Victor a few hours after Mycroft broke the news.

He responded almost immediately, "AWESOME," written in all capital letters, followed by some confetti emojis. "Told you everything would be fine."

"Yep. Now we get to do it all over again in three months."

"Do not think about that. Enjoy this victor-y."

"Are you punning on your own name?"

"Maybe."

"It doesn't suit you."

"You're just jealous because your name is unpunnable."

"That's not a real word. And Sherlock can certainly be punned upon."

"Give me one example."

"I call my newly-regrown hair my Sher-locks." Sherlock actually chuckled aloud as he wrote this. He'd never referred to his hair by such a name, but Victor had asked for a pun and Sherlock would deliver.

"Disgusting," Victor wrote.

"I think it's rather classy."

"Never."

"You're just jealous because it's a better pun than yours."

"Fine. You got me. That pun is legendary. I am now going to frame the hair that I stole from you and hang it on the wall above a plaque that reads 'Sher-locks.'"

"You stole my hair?"

"It was already falling out in clumps, I figured you wouldn't notice."

"I honestly can't tell if you're kidding. Sarcasm is harder to read through text."

"Then I guess you'll never know the truth."

"As long as you're not planning to clone me, you can have my hair."

"Well, there go my plans for next summer."

"Okay, that sarcasm was thick enough to be understood through text alone. Congratulations, you no longer need a scathing tone of voice to convey your verbal irony."

"I'm honored."

"I'm awed."

"I'm late."

"For what?"

"Meeting Mum for dinner."

"Then get going. You shouldn't have started a conversation with me if you were getting ready to go somewhere."

"You had important news: 3 months NED."

"Yeah, but you and I are physically incapable of participating in a conversation lasting less than twenty minutes. I'm putting the phone down now, and I'd better not find another message from you for the next two hours. Say hello to your mum for me. Ta. SH."

Still excited and practically high with joy, Sherlock ventured outside. He walked a few laps around the house, relishing in the fact that he could. He lost track of how many times he circled the spacious grounds, breathing in the fresh end-of-spring air. Eventually, he stopped to admire the new beehive. They'd only built one of his new design to begin with, holding off on replacing all of them until they were certain it worked. Sherlock decided now was as good a time as any to test his creation.

He grabbed the jar they always used to collect honey from a supply cabinet outside. Again, the no free hands dilemma arose. Grunting in frustration, he abandoned the left crutch on the ground and hopped about using only the right one, carrying the jar in his now-empty hand. He'd been using this method for a while now; it wasn't as fast as walking with two, but it was worth it to be able to carry something along.

He placed the jar under the spicket that emerged from inside the hive and began to turn the key. Nothing happened at first, but he waited a few seconds and a slow trickle soon became a steady outpouring of fresh honey. Of course, he had total confidence that it would work, but seeing proof of his success remained invigorating.

He balanced on one foot briefly to use both hands to screw on the lid then used the same crutch-and-hop method to bring the jar back into the house. He set it on the counter and made the trek back outside to fetch his other crutch. Ugh, life with one leg was so needlessly complicated.

~0~

Exactly two weeks after returning to the hospital for scan day, Sherlock met with Dr. Whittaker to seek approval for consulting a prosthetist. He'd been mentally ready for weeks now, but between the healing skin graft and the mess of pins and plates keeping his bones together in their new position, physical preparedness lagged far behind. Once again, he found himself pacing the floor while he waited for Mycroft to finish his morning rituals. The man took ages to groom and primp himself before appearing anywhere in public, and it drove Sherlock up the wall.

He tried to focus on the rhythm of his pacing instead of Mycroft's tallying or the magnitude of everything riding on the results of this appointment. Click, hop, click hop. Every step sent a small spark of pain through the top of his foot. This had been the case for the past two weeks or so, which is why Sherlock was so eager to be approved so he could start sharing his weight between two legs, as humans had evolved to do thousands of years ago. He'd followed all the instructions, massaging the limb daily and tightening the stump protector almost as often. He couldn't imagine a reason for Dr. Whittaker to say no, but he didn't dare get his hopes up.

The surgeon spent ages inspecting every square inch of Severus from top to bottom. Sherlock followed his gaze and listened to his near-silent mutterings. He didn't seem fazed or alarmed by anything he saw, which Sherlock took as a good sign. He also pored over the newest x-rays that had been taken a mere hour ago. Sherlock took this time to study them as well, marveling over the surgical masterpiece his limb had become. They'd taken his distal tibia and attached it to what was left, and also used some part of his fibula somehow—Sherlock didn't understand the specifics, just that Dr. Whittaker deserved a lot of credit for pulling it off. Most surgeons would have just cut through the knee.

"Looks good," he remarked. Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He glanced to Mycroft, seated in the corner of the examination room, and gave him a slight smile. "The wounds are closed, the bones are fused, the protector has really helped to round it off."

"So…" Sherlock prompted him for a definitive answer.

"You have the green light." Sherlock almost pumped a fist victoriously, but he forced himself to act professional. This was almost the best news he'd ever heard, topped only by being declared officially cancer-free. Even Mycroft grinned, something he rarely did. Sherlock pulled his sock back on and hopped off the table, in his excitement landing more roughly than he planned. He fought back a grimace as his left foot stung on impact. Dr. Whittaker didn't notice a thing, but the ever-observant Mycroft picked up on his discomfort immediately.

"Sherlock, what was that about?" he asked firmly. Sherlock wanted to lie, to insist that everything was fine, but deep down he knew that simple overwork and soreness didn't cause this kind of pain. Sherlock admitted to himself that this wasn't going to go away on its own, so he might as well fess up while Dr. Whittaker was here. The surgeon paused en route to the door, hearing Mycroft's concern in his voice.

"My foot hurts when I stand on it." He didn't sugarcoat it. He didn't remind Mycroft that he could handle pain, that this was nothing compared to what he'd endured before, because he knew any efforts to downplay this were futile. Dr. Whittaker heard this confession, and requested he sit back down on the table so he could examine it. Sherlock complied, though he still doubted whatever was going on was severe enough to require treatment from an orthopedic surgeon. It was just pain; it could be anything… right?

Dr. Whittaker's fingers struck the sore spot, and Sherlock yelped, inadvertently attempting to wrench away. The surgeon frowned, Mycroft frowned, and Sherlock wanted to cry. He held it together, clenched his hands into fists and took deep breaths to calm down. Getting worked up never helped anybody, and it only made a bad situation worse.

"What kind of activity have you been doing?" Whittaker asked.

"Mountain climbing," Sherlock answered, drawing on Victor's ridiculous sense of humor. Dr. Whittaker didn't appreciate his joke. "Just walking around the house, occasionally out on the grounds. There's not much else I can do."

"How many hours a day are you on your feet?"

"Feet?" Even someone as intimately involved in his case as Dr. Whittaker couldn't avoid utilizing phrases that didn't apply to Sherlock.

"Sorry…foot."

How was he supposed to estimate that? He didn't keep a timer on how long he walked. He provided his best estimate with about as much confidence as he felt, "Maybe two?"

Dr. Whittaker pursed his lips and announced, "I want this x-rayed." Sherlock bit his lip to stave off more tears. He'd just come from radiology, and now he would return for a brand new problem beyond the whopping pile of problems he already had with his right leg. He gulped, moving to stand up again, but Dr. Whittaker stopped him. "You're taking a chair." Sherlock didn't agree, but he complied. The trip back to radiology took eons and mere seconds all at the same time.

Next thing Sherlock knew, he was staring at the images of his one remaining foot, at the particular spot indicated by the end of Dr. Whittaker's pen… a stress fracture.


	13. One Foot in the Grave

"So, what does this mean?" Mycroft spoke up first, Sherlock himself still too dumbstruck to form words. The look on Dr. Whittaker's face clearly indicated that Sherlock wouldn't like whatever he had to say.

"I'm afraid this changes the plan," he explained. Even an idiot could figure that out; of course this changes the bloody plan, but how? Just what more hell would he have to endure before he could get on with his life? Sherlock, seated once again in the provided wheelchair, looked at Whittaker wide-eyed and fearfully. The doctor's next words would dictate the course of Sherlock's life for the foreseeable future.

Dr. Whittaker steeled himself to deliver bad news. He tried to disguise it, but Sherlock was well-versed in seeing through doctors' masking techniques. He'd been on the receiving end of bad news many times in his relatively short life; he could feel when it was coming like a sailor sensed an impending storm.

"Before we get ahead of ourselves, I want to ask you a question." Of course, stalling tactics.

"Sure," Sherlock agreed. He would learn his prognosis sooner if he just played along.

"I find it hard to believe you could sustain a stress fracture from typical crutch-walking. But then I also know that you are well-practiced and know how to use them properly. Can you fill in the gaps for me? What went wrong?"

"Sometimes I only use one of them so I can carry things," he admitted. He'd done it probably hundreds of times, and never thought that it could cause something like this. He'd thought it was a good thing, pushing himself to the limit and getting stronger. Evidently, it wasn't.

"How often is sometimes?"

"A few times a day."

"When did the foot start paining you?"

"About three weeks ago."

"Did you mention it to your brother, or to anyone when you first noticed it?"

"No."

"Why?" Mycroft cut in. He'd been listening intently, but Sherlock hadn't been paying him much attention. He appeared offended that Sherlock hadn't immediately run to him to complain of his ailing foot.

"It didn't hurt that badly. I thought it was no big deal." His pain tolerance was ridiculously high after everything he'd been through, and this had barely registered on his radar. Only now did he wish he'd reported it sooner. "How do we fix it?"

"You have to rest it," Dr. Whittaker instructed. "And I'm afraid that, in your situation, the only way to do that is not to walk."

"At all?" Sherlock didn't believe what he was hearing.

"At all. Even on crutches, most of your body weight is on that foot. It needs time to heal."

"How much time?"

"Six weeks, minimum." Inside his head, Sherlock heard the cartoonish whistling noise of a person falling off a cliff. He visualized the next six weeks stretched out in front of him, an impossible gauntlet of restrictions and restlessness. Six weeks. That was longer than he'd spent in hospital after the amputation surgery, half as long as the period between post-treatment scans, and about a thousand times as long as he was willing to go without walking. There was no way in hell he'd survive six weeks in a wheelchair without completely losing his mind.

"Isn't there any other way?" Sherlock practically begged, but Dr. Whittaker shook his head.

"If you continue putting pressure on it, you run the risk of making it worse," he explained. "I'm sorry I don't have better news for you, but you don't want to risk ruining that foot. Unfortunately, it's the only one you've got."

Yes, quite unfortunate. Sherlock tangled his fingers through his hair in anger and frustration. He'd come here for good news—he'd received that good news, in fact—and then it all came crashing down with one miniscule little break in his metatarsal. He wanted to punch his foot into submission and force it to heal faster. He wanted to punch Dr. Whittaker for sentencing him to six weeks of mental and physical torture. He wanted to punch himself for valuing a free hand over an unbroken foot.

But he did nothing more than cry.

~0~

Mycroft confiscated his crutches. Sherlock didn't have the motivation to fight him over it. He wheeled himself to his room, finding the door closed in front of him. He'd forgotten how difficult opening doors from this position was, but he managed with minimal histrionics. Once inside, he utilized his one small freedom: he was allowed to put his foot down briefly to transfer from the chair to the bed, sofa, or toilet. He buried his face in his pillow and sulked for a good four hours, too morose to even roll over. Mycroft peeked in to check on him twice, but Sherlock refused to acknowledge him. He didn't want contact with anybody at the moment. The utter devastation of his current predicament leeched every ounce of sociability out of him. If he opened his mouth to try and talk, he'd probably just scream, or cry, or both—definitely both.

What had he ever done to deserve this? First, cancer. Sure, that was rotten luck, but thousands of people shared that misfortune with him, and some of them had it even worse. Then, the loss of his leg. Again, rotten luck, but this was partially his own fault. And again, he wasn't alone. Ophelia had lost a limb to cancer too, as had many more. But this? He was so close to finally increasing his freedom. He'd literally been given the words, "You have the green light." That had been his green light at the end of the tunnel, but now it was more like the Great Gatsby's green light, representative of unattainable dreams.

Every time he'd gotten knocked down, he somehow scrambled back up again. He wasn't so sure he could do that this time. In the most literal sense possible, he already had one foot in the grave, and the one still in the land of the living had just been sidelined. He didn't see why the rest of his mind and body shouldn't just follow suit. Life would be so much easier and less painful if he wasn't even here to experience it. Maybe that qualified as wishing he'd never been born, but Sherlock couldn't care less if his thought process made him sound like a suicidal maniac. He didn't want to die, per se, but he certainly didn't want to be lucid for these next six weeks. Maybe if he asked nicely, they'd agree to put him in a medically-induced coma for the duration. It seemed a reasonable enough appeal for someone in his situation.

Then again, Sherlock hated the idea of demonstrating such cowardice. He thought of Ophelia, who fought a second battle against cancer with more grace than he'd fought his first (and only, hopefully). What would she think if she saw him now, bemoaning his existence after a minor setback. She'd probably laugh. No, she'd scold him like a child scolds a puppy that chewed on the furniture—firmly yet endearingly. She would tell him he's being absurd and to wake up and smell the roses. He wasn't paralyzed, blind, nor deaf, and the list of things he could still do extended longer than the list of things he couldn't. He mentally ran through that go-list, and realized that he was actually restricted very little. He could still work, still move around the house and grounds, still be with his bees and hives, and still look, listen, and speak.

He may have been remanded from Singlefoot to Nofoot, but he still had two hands and a brain that wasn't satisfied with sitting around doing nothing.

Sherlock returned to the living room to find Mycroft intensely focused on typing away on his laptop. The curvature of his eyebrows and the set of his jaw told Sherlock it was work-related, so he didn't interrupt. His brother's gaze flitted upwards for just a second as Sherlock rolled past, but he didn't pause in his task long enough to interrogate him. Sherlock settled in at his table, still littered with all his ash-testing paraphernalia, and got to work. Smiling to himself, he recognized that literally nothing had changed about this routine since before the break; everything worked exactly the same. He wouldn't be able to take standing breaks every few hours, but that was a marginal loss. He had more important things to worry about, like titrating a solution properly.

~0~

Sherlock didn't tell Victor about this new setback until a few days later. He feared he might start crying again if forced to retell it while still in such a fragile emotional state. But his friend knew the approximate date he was supposed to get approved or denied for a prosthetic, and would be eagerly awaiting information. Sherlock pulled up to the desk in his room and opened his laptop; this was a conversation he preferred to have over Skype and not text. He needed to see Victor's face when he broke the news, because honestly he might be just as devastated as Sherlock had been initially.

It took mere seconds for Victor to pick up. Sherlock had nearly forgotten how much he missed that stupid grin. "Hey, mate!" he greeted. "How's life with one foot and zero tumors?"

"About as good as can be expected," Sherlock answered, his tone hinting at more underlying news to reveal. "You?"

"Still down to one more chemo, so I'm pretty stoked about that."

"You should be stoked. You're on the home stretch."

"Yep. And I plan on sliding gloriously into home plate."

"I didn't know you knew anything about American baseball."

"And I didn't think you'd recognize that as a reference to baseball, yet you did."

"Touche," Sherlock admitted. Frankly, he'd seen that phrase used in some novel he'd read when he was younger and searched its source on the internet.

"Did you call to tell me that you're no longer Singlefoot?" Victor asked hopefully. Sherlock had hoped he'd be able to call and tell Victor that soon, but they'd both be waiting for that news for quite a while. He pondered for a moment on how to best break this news, but grew frustrated and decided to just spit it out.

"No. Severus is ready, but the rest of me is not," Sherlock explained. "They found a stress fracture in my left foot, so I'm confined to the chair for six weeks while that heals up."

"Yikes, I'm so sorry. That's terrible." He seemed genuinely upset, and Sherlock felt compelled to cheer him up. He'd already clawed his own way out of the rabbit hole of self-pity; he didn't want to have to send a rope down for Victor.

"I'm not gonna lie, it sucks. I was so ready to move on and return to being bipedal, but my body had other plans. But I've come to terms with it."

"Good for you. I certainly wouldn't be able to do that without going a little stir crazy. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I was pretty upset at first, but I reevaluated my perspective on life, goals, abilities, the infinity of the universe—you know, the whole shebang."

"The whole shebang. Wow, you're a marvel. I will never stop being impressed by you, Singlefoot," Victor confessed. "Some people are strong, and then you're just the King Kong to their average gorilla."

"That is the dumbest analogy I've ever heard," Sherlock deadpanned. "But I appreciate the compliment." Truthfully, he never saw himself as strong, or even anything resembling strong. He had shitty circumstances thrown at him, he melted down, and then he took that pile of melted goo and reshaped it into something resembling, the original. He'd been repeatedly melted and hardened more times than a metamorphic rock. He knew many other people he considered infinitely stronger than himself.

"You're welcome," Victor stated, assuming the existence of a 'thank you' Sherlock hadn't actually said aloud. "If there's ever anything you need; company, entertainment, or even a punching bag, let me know and I'll be there. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks Victor."

"You are most welcome, my odd-toed friend."

"See you later?"

"I certainly hope so." With that, Victor hung up. Sherlock exhaled exhaustedly, he'd been mentally preparing himself to tell Victor this news for the past day or so, fearing he'd react badly. Fortunately, his fears were unfounded and Victor handled the news beautifully. Now, if only all of his fears for the future turned out to be completely irrational.

~0~

Two weeks in to his confinement, and Sherlock's positivity began to wear out. The infinite minor difficulties gnawed at his patience, and there was little he could do to offset it. The ash experiment concluded, he proofread the write-up five times, and couldn't bear another minute of the same subject material. Mycroft was too busy to go out and buy him new specimens, and he didn't dare venture into the world to obtain them himself. Going out like this was equivalent to strapping a flashing light to his forehead and bearing a massive sign that read, "Pity me."

Sherlock lay on the couch, foot propped up on a pillow, and watched himself wiggle his toes, for he had nothing better to do at the moment. Mycroft chose that day to reintroduce him to an old friend. Sherlock heard him coming before he saw him; a distinct, hollow rolling sound that could only mean one thing. He looked up just in time to catch it, as Mycroft had tossed it to him without warning. The Perplexus.

Mycroft had bought this exclusively for hospital stays, for the times when Sherlock was feeling okay but required to stay under observation for transfusions or for unexplained fevers. Mycroft kept it hidden away whenever they returned home to ensure Sherlock didn't practice too much and grow bored of it. It worked one hundred percent; that thing kept Sherlock entertained for hours on end.

Sherlock eyed the clear orb and found the silver ball bearing rolling around on the bottom. The Perplexus was a sphere containing a long, colorful track of various obstacles labeled one through one hundred. Inside sat a smaller ball which could be rolled around by manipulating the larger orb. The goal was to complete all the obstacles in one fell swoop without falling off the track. Sherlock probably racked up thirty hours of attempts in the past year, and he still hadn't done it. He'd beaten each level separately; it had the option to start ahead at level twenty seven or fifty one, but never all at once. Maybe now he'd finally conquer it.

So many memories associated with the Perplexus resurfaced in Sherlock's mind as he played with it once again after so long. He'd shared it with Victor many times, but his friend preferred a rather unconventional tactic of beating it. He shook the ball violently until the ball landed somewhere and played from there, instead of guiding it into one of the three start lanes. He claimed that once he landed it on the finish line at level one hundred, but Sherlock hadn't seen it and therefore didn't believe him. But most of the time, Victor grew frustrated after three or four attempts and passed it back to Sherlock.

One time, he'd lobbed it across the room to avoid throwing up on it. The nausea had come on so suddenly, he'd been hopelessly unprepared. Saving the Perplexus for whatever reason had been the first thing to cross his mind when the feeling in his gut crossed the threshold into unavoidable emesis. He was frustrated and angry, because he'd just beaten an obstacle for the first time and lost the opportunity to explore the stretch of track directly afterwards.

Mycroft played it once, and only once. He sailed straight through the entire thing, from level one to a hundred in three minutes flat.

He'd been intensely focused on the Perplexus when the bandages were first removed after his first surgery. Just as with the stump, he hadn't wanted to see the incision immediately because he knew he'd be disgusted by it. He conquered a particularly difficult obstacle towards the end of the track when Dr. Whittaker accidentally brushed against the sole of his foot—his ticklish foot. Sherlock startled, and the ball bearing flew from the track, ruining all of his progress. He might've murdered the surgeon right then and there if he'd been able-bodied.

Sherlock zoned in, watching the ball's progress as he moved it towards the beginning of level one. He hadn't picked up the Perplexus since his last chemo dose, so he thought he might be a bit rusty. The first fifteen levels were ridiculously easy; the walls of the track were so high here that it would be difficult to lose the ball, and he sailed through them. The tightrope required steadier hands and keener focus, as the ball was prone to falling off the edge if it wasn't kept moving at the right angle and speed. He eased his way through some of the sections of track without rails, aced the swing and the big spiral in the center of the sphere. He defeated levels quickly that usually took him several tries to pass. He reached the low nineties on his first attempt of the day, and he started chewing on his lip nervously. He'd only gotten this far five or six times before. He kept the ball rolling, and it bumped up against the finish line at one hundred.

He'd done it. After a year of practicing intermittently, he beat the whole course. He stared at the silver sphere sitting innocently in that spot like it hadn't taken a monumental effort to get it there. "Mycroft!" he called. His brother entered the room relatively quickly, probably fearing an emergency, and Sherlock held the orb out to show him his accomplishment. "First try," Sherlock reiterated. Mycroft stared at the proof for a brief moment, issued a congratulatory smile, and exited. Sherlock took one more glimpse of his winning run and shook the ball. Now what was he supposed to do? Mycroft had brought the Perplexus out hoping it would keep him entertained for the majority of the next four weeks. Sherlock's question was answered when his brother returned once again, with two items in his hands.

In his left hand, he carried an even bigger Perplexus with a new, more advanced course. And in his right hand he clutched the handle of a violin case.

Sherlock gaped. He hadn't even known that multiple versions of the Perplexus existed, and he hadn't played the violin since he was a teenager. His parents put him in lessons when he was in primary school, and he demonstrated quite an aptitude for the instrument. He'd surpassed his teacher in skill level by the age of twelve and continued to self-study until he left for university. During that time, his studies occupied so much of his time that the violin fell unused. And then, of course, cancer had happened and he'd nearly forgotten that he even knew how to play an instrument, much less took the time to practice it.

"I thought now was as good a time as any to return to playing," Mycroft stated. Sherlock couldn't agree more. It had been so long since he played that regaining his old skill level would certainly occupy the better part of the next four weeks. He preferred playing standing, but playing in any position sounded quite appealing right now. Certainly more appealing that lounging around doing nothing for the next month.

Sherlock sat up and eagerly reached for the case. Mycroft handed it over, and Sherlock undid the clasps and slowly opened the lid to reveal the beautiful wood of his beloved instrument. He could practically feel the strings beneath his fingertips before he even removed the violin from the case. The bigger Perplexus could be reserved for use later. Sherlock would be spending the next four weeks rediscovering his passion for music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I wrote this chapter after struggling with a Perplexus for an hour.


	14. Doublefoot

Somehow, Sherlock managed to reach the end of those six weeks without tearing anybody's head off—even his own. There were many close calls, times when he grew so frustrated that he thought he might just choke to death. Waking up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom became Sherlock's worst nightmare. He started drinking less in the evening to ensure his bladder wouldn't require attention while he slept through the night. However, if his efforts failed, a few equally disagreeable options presented themselves. He could transfer to the chair, but he didn't trust himself to do so in the dark, so he'd have to turn on the light and jeopardize the rest of his night's sleep. Also, transferring once ensured he'd have to do it at least three more times between using the bathroom and returning to bed. He could attempt to fall back asleep and wait it out, but this of course posed the threat of wetting the bed. More often than not, he chose the third option: half-crawling, half-dragging himself across the floor on his one good knee like some sort of undead baby.

Only once did he scour the house for the crutches that Mycroft had hidden from him, fully intending to get up and walk out of the house with them and damn the consequences. His brother caught him before he even got close and put him under one-on-one surveillance with some hired muscle for an entire seventy two hours. Only when he was convinced Sherlock would continue to comply with his physical limitations did he release him from such strict confinement.

Sherlock occupied most of those days with his newly-rediscovered violin. He spent up to four hours a day with the instrument perched on his shoulder, since there was very little else he could do in this current state. Two weeks after his reintroduction to the violin, he felt personally that he'd regained his previous skill level. Eventually, he surpassed that. By the end of his sentence he could play pieces that once he'd only dreamed of.

Another new challenge arose during this time period, that of the shrinker sock. It served a similar purpose to the plastic stump protector, but looked very different. The material was similar to a woman's pantyhose and easily ripped if snagged on a fingernail. Sherlock learned that lesson the hard way. It was uncomfortably tight, even more so than the protector had been, because it hugged every inch of his skin and formed to every contour. The top contained a rim of textured dots to cling to his skin and prevent it from sliding down his leg. The first time he put it on, it pinched like the cilice belts that some cult members use for self-mutilation. Only the promise of this helping him towards a prosthetic prevented him from immediately ripping it off. Now, he wore it constantly, removing it only to shower, and he already noticed a visible difference in Severus's shape.

In the last week of his rehabilitation, he received a phone call from Victor. They'd chatted every couple days, so it wasn't uncommon for Sherlock's violin practice to be interrupted by that familiar ringtone. But this time, he could tell before even answering that something profound had happened. The vibration seemed a different frequency than usual, though Sherlock's hadn't changed any settings. He set the violin down and wheeled himself over to where he'd left his mobile, picking up on the third ring. Fortunately, he could hear Victor was excited and not devastated about whatever-it-was.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked inquisitively. He could practically see Victor's smile already.

"Take a guess," Victor instructed.

"Did we win the war?" Sherlock took a page from his friend's own book and answered ridiculously.

"I know you're trying to be sarcastic, but yes, in fact, we did win the war. Well actually, I won." Sherlock knew exactly what this meant and his heart soared, but he wanted Victor to have the pleasure of speaking those words. For this reason, he continued to play dumb.

"I didn't know you were in active service. You've never made me salute you."

"That's 'cause I see us as equals."

"That's nice," Sherlock sighed, waiting for Victor to break the news.

"Yeah, I suppose it is. But I must tell you that I was referring to a different kind of war."

"Yes…?"

"I have three words for you, Singlefoot. Three words: N, E, D!"

"That's fantastic! I'm so happy for you." Sherlock's face broke into a massive grin; he was so elated for his best friend to finally be rid of the monster they'd both fought for so long. Every patient longed to hear those three letters used to describe their condition, and now both Victor and Sherlock had reached that milestone. Words could not suffice to quantify Sherlock's joy.

"I'm on cloud nine right about now," Victor sighed wistfully.

"You should be. That's the best news I've heard in weeks. Months, probably."

"Me too. At least it will be, until you send me video evidence of you learning to walk properly again."

"I'm only chair-bound for another six days, then more x-rays before I get final approval to be back on my foot. Once I'm cleared for that, Severus gets casted. But until that time, I'll only be thinking about you and this massive success."

"Hooray for not becoming a statistic," Victor deadpanned.

Sherlock repeated emphatically, "Hooray for not becoming a statistic!"

~0~

Finally, Sherlock reached the end of his six-week confinement and new x-rays showed that the stress fracture had completely healed. He was allowed to walk again, but only for brief periods and always with both crutches. He immediately utilized his newfound freedom to get from his bedroom to the living room. Even better news, Mycroft had scheduled his first prosthetist appointment for the following day.

Sherlock had no idea what to expect, having never been an amputee before, but he tried not to dwell on it too much. He wouldn't be walking two-legged today, obviously, just casting Severus so that his new leg would fit properly. The liner was somewhat difficult to pull on, but Sherlock refused help. Then they slapped wet plaster on and waited for it to dry, almost like children doing an art project. Sherlock refused to participate in inane conversation with any involved parties while waiting for it to dry, instead disappearing into his mind to think about all the things he'd be able to do again once this convoluted process was finished with. They even measured his remaining foot, and he was about to ask why when he realized they'd want to make the new foot the same size so his shoes would match.

He returned home with Mycroft not long after, dreading the next few days of waiting. They couldn't make anything for him immediately, though he begged Mycroft to use his influence to give them some more powerful incentive. His brother adamantly refused. "You can wait a few days, Sherlock, it's not the end of the world," he chided.

"I've waited for months already," Sherlock complained. The idea of sitting idly any longer caused him physical pain.

"So mere days will seem like no time at all." That was the end of that conversation. Sherlock had always considered himself rather good at arguing and wheedling into getting his way, but against Mycroft's verbal prowess he stood no chance. So he waited. And he waited. Those 'mere days' each lasted at least a month. Sherlock was supposed to have completed this process by now; if it weren't for the stupid fracture he'd already be walking with a cane at worst, at best with no aid at all.

He managed to survive the additional days of biding his time, though he made them pretty miserable for both himself and Mycroft.

Eagerly awaiting this monumental next step, Sherlock allowed Mycroft to accompany him to the next meeting with the prosthetist. Actually, the person was inconsequential, Sherlock wanted to grow acquainted with the prosthetic itself. Sherlock didn't even remember the man's name. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Mycroft asked knowingly before they walked out the front door. Sherlock pondered, looked himself up and down, and couldn't think of anything missing. He looked back up at Mycroft confusedly.

"You'll need a right shoe," his brother said tersely. Sherlock hadn't touched any of his right shoes in months; they currently sat in a haphazard pile at the back of his closet. Now he could change that. He crutched back to his bedroom and eased himself to the floor to dig one out. It took a few minutes, but he found the match to the left shoe he was already wearing. He blew a layer of dust off before recognizing he'd put himself into the same dilemma that had delayed this whole process for so long. He had no way to carry the shoe. Refusing to give in and call Mycroft for help, he improvised. He tied the laces in a loop and threaded his wrist through before grabbing onto the crutch. Problem. Solved.

"Got it," he announced as he returned to the entryway where Mycroft awaited.

"We've got to get you a backpack or something," his brother remarked. "There must be a better way to carry things."

"Won't need an unconventional way to carry things for much longer."

"Fair enough." He opened the door and Sherlock led the way to the waiting car. He bounced his knee the entire ride there in anticipation. After this moment, everything could begin to pick up speed again and he could eventually return to a semblance of a normal life.

The room was smaller than he expected, outfitted with a set of parallel bars like in men's gymnastics. He drudged up the specialist's name from the back of his memory—Nathaniel Thornton, prefers to be called Nate. Sherlock could see the case that obviously contained his new leg, but he resisted the temptation to open it himself while Nate talked to him and Mycroft about formalities and whatnot. Sherlock was hardly listening, but he understood enough. This was only the first in what would inevitably be a series of prosthetics he would go through as the stump continued to shrink and reach its final shape. Even now, it remained swollen, especially in the mornings. Nate handed him a bottle of lotion and explained its vitality in preventing chafing and blisters. Sherlock nodded in understanding; now they were actually getting to the information important to him right now. He didn't particularly care what would be happening in the next months when, in the next few minutes, he could be walking normally again.

At last, Nate clicked open the latches, revealing Sherlock's new best friend. It looked exactly as he'd suspected; metal and plastic ending in a somewhat-realistic foot. Still infinitely better than what he currently had, which was, of course, nothing at all. Sherlock knew the look in his eyes conveyed his uncontainable excitement. He allowed Nate to show him how much lotion to use and apply the first gel sleeve. This was just a protective layer for the stump itself. Afterwards, he'd add a different number of socks on top, depending on the level of swelling. Most likely, he'd put on one in the morning and add more progressively throughout the day.

Then came the leg itself. Sherlock held his breath as he placed Severus inside and pulled the outer sleeve all the way up to mid-thigh. He took a moment and simply gaped. He'd awaited this day for so long, and now that it had finally arrived he couldn't quantitate the maelstrom of emotions swirling around in him. He slid his right shoe onto the fake foot and neatly tied the laces, tightening the bow with a flourish just because he could.

He wiggled his right toes, picturing live appendages moving inside of the shoe instead of inanimate polymers, and felt the most realistic phantom sensation he'd ever experienced. The normalcy made him smile. He used the parallel bars in front of him to rise to standing, but without putting any weight on the new leg. He wasn't used to having two feet on the floor to drag himself to standing. "Before you take any steps, just try to stand alone and get your balance," Nate instructed. In his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see Mycroft watching him intently, but tried to ignore him. He let go of the bars, but found himself simply balancing on his left foot. The prosthetic might as well not have been there for all the work it was doing.

He remembered the agony that would shoot through his shin when he placed weight on his leg before, first because of the tumor and later because of surgical pain. He'd erected psychological blocks against placing that foot fully on the floor, blocks that now needed to be torn down. Slowly, he eased his weight towards the right and felt the strain on his left leg easing. He must be doing it! He swayed his hips side to side a little, then front and back to make sure he was truly balanced, and he held steady. For the first time in over five months, he stood on two feet.

"Excellent," Nate remarked. "Now try a few steps. The bars are there to grab if you slip." Sherlock slowly eased the weight back off his right leg and swung it forward. He picked up his left foot enough to step it forward, but he was so unused to bearing weight on his right leg that it looked more like a hop than a step. He repeated this process a few more times without needing the parallel bars to stabilize himself. His gait was hopelessly lurching and unsteady, but in Sherlock's book, walking was walking.

He walked the entire length of the bars and back before pausing to catch his breath. A smile broke out on his face without his consciously putting it there. He glanced at Mycroft to find his own grin reflected on his brother's face. This was it—the true beginning of his journey back to health and function.

"How does it feel?" Nate questioned.

"Unimaginably alien," Sherlock remarked.

"Yeah, that's the case for most people. But I've never heard the sensation articulated so well. It'll take quite a bit of getting used to, but I'm sure you already knew that." Sherlock decided that he liked Nate. The man clearly understood his situation as intimately as a non-amputee could, and he didn't immediately assume Sherlock knew less than him like most people did. He was relieved he wouldn't have to put up with someone unbearable for the next several months.

Sherlock and Mycroft left the office with lots of instructions and new eagerness. Sherlock walked two-legged, but with crutches for balance. It would take a lot of practice before he felt safe to travel any distance without them. Still, he stared down at his two feet the entire way, still unused to a sight that for most people was completely normal.

When they arrived home, Sherlock immediately dashed to his room and worked an intact pair of trousers over his legs. He'd still been wearing a shortened pair, but now he could switch back and look one hundred percent normal. The length would cover the inorganic material of the prosthetic, and a shoe would cover a false foot, meaning unobservant passersby would never notice what Sherlock was missing. Once hard work and physical therapy steadied his gait and minimized his limp, he could go around the city as an unsuspecting, ordinary man. He'd dreamed of this day for so long, and now it had finally arrived.

He sat down on the bed with both legs hanging off the side and let them swing a little bit. He snatched his mobile up from the table and snapped a photo of himself from the knees down, immediately sending it to Victor. He captioned it, "Doublefoot." He thought Victor would rather appreciate the clever twist on his nickname. He didn't get an immediate response, so he went back into the living room, leaving his phone behind so he wouldn't get distracted from his next dual-legged mission. He raised the height of his music stand and grabbed his violin. He selected a rather easy piece and, for the first time in ages, played it standing.

He could sense Mycroft standing a few meters away, watching him enjoy this simple pleasure, but he didn't let it draw his attention. He'd forgotten why he'd always preferred to play standing. His shoulders felt so much freer without a chair back behind them, and he could more readily sway with the tune and pitch of the song. He closed his eyes and let muscle memory take over. He'd played this piece probably hundreds of times, and he knew the notes by heart. His confidence soared, playing at his full height and full talent potential. He finished the last bow-stroke with a flourish, placed the instrument down, and felt a single happy tear wind its way down his cheek.


	15. March to the Beat of Your Own (Ear)drum

Sherlock kept the leg on for about an hour after returning home, but then he took it off and curled up on the sofa with his favorite chemistry textbook. He wasn't supposed to have it on for too long, especially so early on, because Severus wasn't used to it. The sight of the leg, shoe still on, leaning up against the wall amused him more than it had any right to. For the next hour and a half, Sherlock lost himself in basic stoichiometry, acid-base titrations, and Le Chatlier's principle. It was all old stuff he'd learned years ago, even before university, but he liked to test his skills and solve the practice problems in his head—though they were intended for pencil, paper, and calculator.

His relaxation was disturbed when Mycroft stormed into the room, looking quite perturbed. Sherlock had no clue what could possibly have ticked him off, but fortunately he didn't have to guess. "Your phone has been ringing nearly nonstop for the past thirty minutes," Mycroft explained. "Couldn't you have at least shouted to have me fetch it for you, if you weren't going to make the effort to go get it yourself?"

Sherlock didn't think he deserved such harsh words, but at the same time he knew Mycroft's irritation would only be amplified when he learned the reason Sherlock hadn't gone to answer it. Sherlock would have readily crutched it to his room to answer whoever was so persistently calling—if he'd actually heard the tone. The fact of the matter was… he hadn't, because he couldn't. Mycroft must've seen this guilt plastered across Sherlock's face, because he marched up and reached behind Sherlock's ear, knowing he wouldn't find what he was looking for. His fingers were cold against the skin of Sherlock's scalp, and he reflexively flinched away.

"Sherlock, why aren't you wearing them?" he asked. He didn't need to specify; Sherlock knew exactly what he was referring to. The stupid hearing aids.

Everyone who knew even the slightest thing about chemotherapy knew the major side effects: hair loss, neutropenia, intense nausea, and the works. What many people didn't recognize: certain chemotherapy drugs could cause nerve damage, particularly in those associated with hearing. Ototoxicity, the doctors called it. They'd valued his life above one of his five senses, so they'd continued to administer the treatment that was slowly ruining his hearing. Then they'd retroactively fixed the damage they caused by providing him with mechanical assistance for something he'd been able to do independently for his entire life prior.

Sherlock detested them from the start. He'd gotten them when he still had two legs, so they became the most obvious sign of physical disability, especially since he had no hair to cover them. He'd vowed never to use them until his locks grew long enough to reach the back of his ears. That oath lasted exactly two days, after which Mycroft threatened to glue them to his head or have them surgically implanted. Sherlock's hearing really wasn't that bad, but Mycroft's voice happened to be of a frequency that his newly-damaged ears found difficult to pick up. At least, that was the conclusion Mycroft had reached. Oftentimes Sherlock heard every word and just ignored him.

"Why aren't you wearing them?" Mycroft repeated, unnecessarily loudly. Sherlock had heard him perfectly well the first time, just hadn't yet formulated an answer that wouldn't enrage his brother.

"I don't need them right now," Sherlock decided. He considered leaving it at, "I don't need them," but even he didn't believe that. He couldn't deny that they helped, but that didn't mean he was willing to accept that assistance.

"Clearly you do, because someone is evidently desperate to contact you and they're unable because of your deafness."

"I'm not deaf, Mycroft, I'm hearing impaired." Sherlock considered that distinction immensely important.

"An impairment which could easily be fixed if you just wore your hearing aids."

"I was wearing them all day, but I took them off when we got home from the appointment. Just for once, I wanted to feel whole again. I could look down and see two feet, and not feel hard plastic pressing against the backs of my auricles. I'm sorry my newfound freedom disturbed your workday."

This tirade would've been wonderfully punctuated by Sherlock storming out of the room, but it was difficult to storm anywhere when one of one's legs remained across the room. He settled for burying his nose in the textbook and playing deaf. It wasn't all that difficult; Mycroft sounded quiet and out-of-focus, like a radio station with a poor signal. Sherlock could've made out the words if he'd tried, but the strain gave him a headache and he preferred, right now, to sulk and ignore him. Mycroft recognized this as a losing battle, and resigned himself to placing the offending phone on the table within Sherlock's reach. Sherlock grabbed it without looking up and saw that Victor had been the one to call him so many times in a row. Evidently, he wanted to react to Sherlock's 'Doublefoot' photo through speech and not through text.

Sherlock set it to vibrate and answered when he felt the buzzing, eager to share his excitement with his best friend. He greeted Victor before he even had a chance to speak, "Don't even think of calling me Singlefoot." Regrettably, Sherlock couldn't hear Victor's response, and he didn't have the option of lip-reading to help him. "You're going to have to speak up," he told Victor.

"Shirking your little buddies, I see," Victor remarked. He never called them what they were, usually sticking to 'little buddies' or 'doodads.' Sherlock despised both euphemisms equally because of what else they could easily refer to. He considered himself above such base humor.

"Don't lecture me, I've already gotten that from Mycroft."

"Fine. But let it be known that I feel like a moron shouting into the phone like this."

"You are a moron," Sherlock retorted.

"I can't argue with that. But now I'm an obnoxiously loud moron."

"I'm the only one who's listening, and it sounds like a normal volume to me. So you're not obnoxiously loud—just obnoxious."

"Wow, you really grew a pair. And I'm not talking about feet."

"Very funny," Sherlock drawled, though he didn't find the jape at all humorous.

"So… tell me all about it," Victor demanded. "You can't just send a picture with a one-word explanation and expect me to be satisfied with that."

Sherlock launched into an explanation of his few adventures in dual-leggedness, omitting no detail. Victor would want to hear it all, and Sherlock wanted to recount it all. It still seemed surreal, the fact that he'd actually reached this crux of his odyssey. He could walk again! Certainly not easily, and not for long periods of time, but he could walk again. From here on out, instead of getting incrementally worse as they had been for so long, things would get better.

"Let me guess," Victor interrupted him halfway through. "You hobbled in on crutches, and then you ran out."

"Not quite." Though Sherlock wished that was the case. "One has to walk before he can run."

"Yet another colloquialism that relies on the assumption that one is able-bodied."

"I never really thought about how many there were, until of course I became the minority to which they don't apply."

"You must get endless joy out of guilting people who use them when referring to you. I know I would, were I in your shoes," he said wryly. Sherlock knew Victor recognized exactly what he just said, and he smirked despite himself.

"Mostly I just go after Mycroft. But he only slipped up in the early days. Now he watches his phrasing almost as carefully as he watches me."

"Which is how carefully? Are we talking DEFCON three-level surveillance?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He'd related Mycroft's overprotectiveness to America's scale of defense alertness only once, but Victor had taken to the analogy like an addict to morphine.

Sherlock decided to humor him, "Compared to his baseline hovering, I'd put us only at DEFCON four. But there was one instance when he definitely achieved a two, possibly even a one."

"Why hadn't I heard of this sooner? Was confiscating your phone a part of it?"

"No. I was just too scared to mention it for fear you'd come running to my rescue like some quixotic knight on a white steed."

"Tell me more."

"Mycroft confiscated my crutches when Whittaker banned me from walking for six weeks. I tried to steal them back once, and he went nuts. Had one of his 'associates' follow me around for three days."

"Follow you, like follow you around the house?"

"Yeah. I couldn't so much as take a piss without this guy staring down my shoulder."

"You're kidding." Victor sounded one breath away from busting out laughing, and Sherlock couldn't blame him. The notion was utterly ridiculous.

"Do you think I would make this up? I felt like a convict on parole. Mycroft must've thought I would make a break for it or something. As if I could get far even if I tried. Even his plump arse could've caught me."

"Not anymore, though," Victor reminded him. "Now you regain the physical upper hand, yes?"

"Upper foot," Sherlock corrected.

"No. You cannot twist the words to make it fit into the category of expressions that don't apply to you."

"Why not?"

"That's not how the world works. And I believe the expression comes from poker, 'upper hand' meaning winning cards. Upper foot would make no sense."

"I guess you're right."

"Wow, I've never heard those words come from your mouth before. It's always been me who had to admit that you're right."

"I guess the boot's on the other foot."

"Hilarious. Truly award-winning material. Have you ever considered stand-up comedy?"

"Hell no. Standing up is still rather difficult."

"Dang, I didn't even notice that one. The world really is biased against your kind."

"My kind? Victor, I'm not another species. Many people in the disabled community would take offense to that remark. Fortunately, I'm not one of them, especially since I know you're just being an idiot, but you'd better watch your mouth."

"I can't see it past my nose," he replied cheekily. Sherlock huffed.

"You're the one who should attempt stand-up."

"Really?"

"But only at kids' birthday parties, with jokes like that."

"For a second there I thought you were genuinely being encouraging."

"You should've known better."

"Yeah, I guess I… jumped to conclusions." Sherlock could practically hear Victor smirking.

"And somehow we're back on inapt expressions."

"Our conversations do tend to be cyclical in nature."

"Shall we break that cycle before we get dizzy?"

"Certainly. I want video evidence of you walking by the end of the week, you hear me?"

"No promises," Sherlock said. He didn't need to see how uneven his gait was; he could feel it. Watching it would only make him feel worse. "Bye now."

"Goodbye." With that, he hung up and returned the device to the table. He sighed, missing Victor's boisterous personality and how it managed to lighten up any room, even a hospital room. When they were admitted at the same time, they would drop in on each other multiple times a day to keep each other company and break up the monotony of the sick life. As much as Sherlock enjoyed being free from that antiseptic-scented prison, he sometimes longed for the camaraderie. He could call, text, or Skype Victor, but it just couldn't compare to in-person conversation. Out here, he had no one but Mycroft for live company. His brother could be welcoming when he wanted to, but for the most part he was focused entirely on work and the business side of Sherlock's recovery. Their fraternal bonding moments were growing sparser by the day. Lonely—that was the word he was looking for. Sherlock was lonely.

~0~

Not long after that conversation with Victor, Sherlock started at physical therapy three times a week. He banned Mycroft from accompanying him, so his brother simply had one of his henchmen drive Sherlock there and back. Sherlock insisted he was perfectly capable of driving left-footed or of taking a cab, but Mycroft refused to allow Sherlock that much independence while under his roof. Sherlock reluctantly accepted the mandatory chauffeur and tried to focus his energy on the two hours of hard work ahead.

It was exhausting.

Sherlock had been reasonably fit throughout his life, although a year of illness and treatment had inevitably shortened his endurance. Despite this, everything was hard. Learning to walk properly with two legs was more difficult than learning to navigate the world with only one. Every single session, he was pushed to his physical and mental limit. He would return home, peel off his leg and multiple socks, collapse into bed, and remain like that for hours, too weak to move.

They started him off on easy things, like walking on a treadmill or simply standing and shifting side to side. Everything done, of course, under the close eye of the physiotherapist. Sherlock didn't like him as much as he'd liked Stephen from the hospital, but he was tolerable enough. Andrew understood that Sherlock attended with one task in mind: to complete his regimen with no small talk in between. Some people would have tried to force him into 'chatting,' a trait which Sherlock despised, especially in people with whom he had an exclusively professional relationship.

Ever so slowly, he noticed these menial tasks got easier. He could walk more evenly and his right quadriceps didn't tire as quickly, now that they were growing accustomed to actually having to work again. This coincided with his graduation to more difficult and intricate exercises. For the next several weeks, physical therapy became a child's gymnastics class. He was presented with a balance beam, small hurdles to step over, and one of those half-yoga-ball things. Suddenly, his sessions became not only more difficult, but more interesting. He found he actually enjoyed going to see what new challenges Andrew procured for them.

Inevitably, not all was smooth sailing. Sherlock managed to avoid any catastrophic incidents, but that didn't mean he always returned home unscathed. One time, he'd neglected to add another sock to his stump when he felt the leg loosen, thinking it would be only mildly uncomfortable. He certainly hadn't expected that his leg would literally fall off as he picked up his foot to step over the hurdle. He'd anticipated returning his right foot to the floor moments after picking it up, so his center of gravity was off. He toppled forward and would have hit the ground hard if it weren't for Andrew's quick reflexes. The therapist managed to catch part of his weight, enough for Sherlock to balance on his left foot.

"I would say that's never happened before, but I'd be lying," Andrew remarked.

"Really?" Sherlock eased himself to the floor and grabbed another two socks out of his back pocket. He carried extras everywhere in case his leg started to slip. This time, he'd been dumb enough to neglect adding another until it was too late. He pulled on the extra socks and reattached his leg.

"You're not the only one who forgets to add socks." They both laughed the incident off and finished out the last half hour of the session. After that, Sherlock paid closer attention to when his leg felt loose.

His arch-nemesis at therapy quickly became the ladder. Not a ladder for climbing, but one that sat on the floor and served as an agility course. Athletes would dash in out of them to help with speed of footwork. Sherlock was no athlete anymore, and one of his feet had no nerve receptors to tell him if he placed it correctly. He managed the first task relatively well: simply placing one foot and then the other in between the rungs, but he looked down at his feet the entire time. When Andrew showed him some new patterns of foot placement to try, Sherlock was initially eager. Then he tried to replicate the therapist's step and everything went to hell. Half the time, he ended up stepping on the rope of the ladder itself instead of next to or inside it. It frustrated him to no end. His neck started to ache from staring down at the ground to check his foot placement, until Andrew made him stop.

He always did this. If Sherlock got too worked up over his inability to complete a certain obstacle satisfactorily, Andrew changed the goal. This ensured that Sherlock didn't get hung up on what he couldn't do and refocused him onto something he could. When he cooled down, they'd return and try again. Sherlock wasn't sure if Andrew thought he was being subtle with his redirection, but he certainly couldn't fool Sherlock. Though he was aware of the ruse, he brought no attention to it because he was secretly thankful. He hated letting his head get the better of him, and left to his own devices he'd try to force the obstacle until he literally collapsed from exhaustion.

One thing Sherlock couldn't deny: the physio worked. And it worked well. For the first two weeks after getting the prosthetic, he still walked with his crutches for balance when he traveled further than a few steps. Throughout that time, he worked with Andrew, and was down to just a cane by the two week mark. Before a month had even elapsed, he'd eliminated the cane and could walk any reasonable distance independently.

During this time of intense rehabilitation, he not only saw Andrew three times a week, but visited Nate once per week to have the foot of his prosthesis adjusted. As his gait improved, the positioning needed to be shifted accordingly or the atypical wear and tear would ruin his knee and hip. Every time he went, he felt like a horse being shod. Nate would watch him walk between the infamous parallel bars a few times and observe what needed to be changed, then take a screwdriver to his leg. It really was a bizarre process.

Despite wanting to look as normal as possible, Sherlock was forced to continue wearing his shortened trousers because he needed to be able to access his thigh to put the leg on and take it off when necessary. Socks still needed to be added throughout the day to compensate for the decreased swelling. He wore the shrinker sock at night to combat this, but he still woke up with a stump significantly larger than the one he'd gone to bed with. If he attempted to wear regular trousers, he'd have to remove them entirely to adjust his leg, which was not something he was inclined to do.

He wanted to wear the leg all day long, but that would be detrimental to Severus's health this early in the game. He wore it for physio, obviously, and when he walked outside to visit the bees. He didn't necessarily need his new honeycomb invention anymore since he had both hands free, but it made honey collection so much easier and safer for both him and the bees, so he continued to use it. And it still worked perfectly. He played violin standing, because now that he could he never wanted to go back to sitting, but spent at least a few hours a day seated without the leg on.

All things considered, Sherlock led a pretty great life.


	16. A Step in a New Direction

As October rolled around, Sherlock began to grow frustrated with the sheer number of socks he had to wear to keep his leg from falling off. Severus was permanently smaller than he'd been when he was casted. So, Sherlock went back to the prosthetist to be recasted for a new leg. It was boring and tedious, but he was eager for a better fit. He could barely bend his knee with all the layers of socks, and this new leg would require the use of only one.

When the leg was ready, he was given a test socket to make sure it was comfortable. It was a single black sock with four rings that created an airlock when he slid the prosthetic over them. This made it nearly impossible for him to pull the leg off even if he tried his hardest, which meant it wouldn't ever accidentally slip off. This also meant that he no longer needed to wear the outer sleeve which went up to mid-thigh, another freedom for which Sherlock was immensely grateful.

However, after he approved the test socket, they had to take it away from him while they made his permanent one. Which meant he had to survive a few days with no leg at all. He would have been utterly miserable if it weren't for the fact that he'd already endured six weeks with no leg and no walking on his good foot. This tenure paled in comparison. And at the end of it, he was rewarded with a custom socket and leg that was far lighter and more comfortable than the one he'd dealt with for two months.

Both Nate and Andrew had asked him multiple times if he wanted to try a blade instead of a foot. If he ever wanted to graduate to running, he'd need one, but Sherlock didn't foresee having to run anywhere in his near future. The idea of a blade for a foot immediately repelled him because it wouldn't look normal. With that, he'd again be instantly recognizable as an amputee, which was something he'd worked for a long time to avoid. With a foot, he could disguise himself as a normal man with a slight limp. There were many possible explanations for a slight limp, amputation being towards the bottom of the list of possibilities that a normal person would consider. He said no to the blade and continued to maximize his agility and minimize his limp with the traditional foot.

Around the same time, Sherlock reached six months post treatment. This, of course, meant another round of scans to ensure he remained cancer free. The anxiety crept up on him again, though he tried to remember Victor's advice from last time and not focus on the outcome of an event over which he had no control. To keep his mind off of it, he threw himself into home exercises that Andrew had recommended. Mycroft possessed a treadmill, which he would claim he bought for Sherlock's uses after he started PT. In actuality, the elder Holmes cycled through phases of deciding once and for all that he'd whip himself into shape, and giving up entirely. The treadmill was here long before Sherlock arrived, though he used it nonetheless.

"You're fine," Mycroft told him when the scan results came back. This time, Sherlock didn't misinterpret his words. He immediately understood this meant he was in the clear for another three months. Sherlock exhaled deeply, letting the nervousness of the past few days evaporate with the good news. He quickly texted Victor the information, but didn't spark a longer conversation. His friends simply congratulated him on remaining healthy and again expressed his wish for video evidence that Sherlock could walk normally.

Sherlock relented and, at his next session with Andrew, asked he film him. He sent the clip to Victor and received a thumbs-up emoji in response. For something he'd been begging for, he really ought to have written out a more detailed response. Maybe he was otherwise occupied. Sherlock decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Later that night, Victor called him. Sherlock heard the ringtone this time, even though he'd left his phone in the other room. He'd changed the tone to a lower frequency and set the volume louder so he could still hear it even if he forgot to put on his hearing aids—which he hadn't, this time. "I didn't believe it until I saw it," Victor admitted.

"What, you thought I was lying?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"You've got me there. Honesty may be the best policy, but it's not mine. Anyways, what'd you think? Pretty impressive, huh?"

"Not really," Victor quipped. "Kids one fourth your age can walk."

"Very funny. But kids one fourth my age can also recognize that as an inappropriate and unkind joke."

"Whatever. But seriously, amazing work. I can't pretend I know what it's like to relearn a skill like that, but I can imagine it's insanely difficult. You make it look easy."

"You only saw the before and the after. I've omitted the months of in-between."

"Excellent marketing strategy. Your clip made rehab seem rather glamorous. You're implying that it's not?"

"About as glamorous as a teenage boys' locker room."

"Yikes. I haven't been in one of those since university. Are you at home right now?" Victor abruptly changed the subject.

"Yeah, why?" Sherlock wondered where he intended this conversation to go.

"You have your computer on you?"

"Yeah." Sherlock stood up and walked over to his bedroom, where his laptop sat charging on the desk where he'd left it. He opened it and waited for Victor to continue his mysterious train of thought."

"You remember that little girl I introduced you to? Ophelia?"

"How could I forget." At the time, Sherlock was freshly singlefooted, and Victor had forced him to visit the pediatric ward to meet a girl in a similar situation. Sherlock had marveled at her nonchalance at being hospitalized for a second round of treatment when he'd barely managed his first. Plus, the concept of rotationplasty had immediately fascinated him.

"Google her," Victor instructed.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"How do I do that if I only know her first name?"

"Use that and the word 'cancer.'"

"Cancer?"

"Yes, 'Ophelia cancer.'" Sherlock did as Victor instructed, and the first result to pop up was a website for a charity named after her. His first instinct told him that she had died, and this organization had been created in her honor by her family, but fortunately that wasn't the case. Ophelia herself was spearheading a campaign to increase government funding for cancer research. Sherlock spent a few minutes exploring the site, marveling at its professionalism. She clearly wasn't doing this alone.

One of the last tabs brought him to an animation. A young girl sat in a tree above a pond, weaving chains of different colors and types of flowers. Sherlock immediately recognized the scene from Hamlet: this is how Ophelia's death was described. The girl in the image didn't look anything like the Ophelia Sherlock had met, but more like the classical depiction of Shakespeare's character. It seemed completely unrelated to the message of the rest of the site, but then Sherlock noticed that the girl continuously dropped flowers into the water below. He scrolled down and found an explanation. Each flower to fall into the pond represented a life lost to cancer, with different colors denoting different types. Sherlock watched as they continued to fall at an alarming rate and disappeared beneath the surface of the virtual water. The simulation must run based on average number of cancer deaths per day. He briefly scanned the key for the flower representing osteosarcoma, but saw none of that type fall from Ophelia's intricate chains. He remembered the statistic vividly: 1,590 people per year, which averaged to about four deaths per day. He'd have to watch all day long to catch that particular flower.

Watching them continue to plummet into the watery depths depressed him, so he returned to the home page and asked Victor why he'd made Sherlock look at this in the first place. "I thought you should know that the person you met is now practically a celebrity."

"A celebrity?"

"She's spoken at fundraisers and other events all over the world. You should be honored that you got to meet her face-to-face."

"I am honored," Sherlock admitted. His respect for this little girl knew no bounds.

"Good. She and I are rather good friends, so I have all the inside updates. I'll try to keep you in the loop."

"What if I don't want to be in this loop?" As much as he valued the community, Sherlock wanted to leave it far behind. Being a part of this loop would force him into a loop of rehashing the worst year of his life.

"Why not?"

"I don't love being reminded."

"Of what?"

"Of any of it. The statistics, the facts, the odds. Whatever they already have available was good enough for me, and I'm satisfied with that."

"Sherlock, that's awfully selfish of you." Victor sounded genuinely disappointed, and Sherlock hated hearing that tone from him. But not even a morose Victor could change his mind.

"I know. And I'm sorry. But I cannot sacrifice my own mental health for the physical health of thousands of strangers."

Victor hung up.

Sherlock didn't blame him. He was much more of a people person than Sherlock had ever been or could ever be. Victor cared, and cared deeply, about everyone. He'd been the one to approach Sherlock when he was first admitted and introduce himself, offering his company or services in sneaking in better food or entertainment. He'd always ask if Sherlock was okay, even if he himself was far sicker, and followed it up with a bawdy joke to lighten his spirits. Sherlock reciprocated that with Victor, but he could never put himself out there like that. He waited for people to come to him and evaluated them from there. Maybe that was why he and Victor got along so well; their social tactics were polar opposites.

He couldn't feel guilty about rejecting Victor's offer to be 'kept in the loop,' whatever that meant. Sherlock suspected it entailed the dates and times of fundraising events or meetings with government officials. He'd be expected to attend some, most likely. At least at the local ones, the absence of someone 'in the loop' would be conspicuous. That was not an enticing prospect for him.

He didn't want to be reminded how far the world of cancer treatment still had to go. He didn't want to be reminded of the shortcomings in the national budget. He didn't want to be reminded of the thousands of people who weren't as lucky as he. And he certainly didn't want to be reminded of the children and young adults whose lives were cut mercilessly short. He'd rather live out the remainder of his life moving ever further away from his own battle with that monster and coping with the physical limitations it had forced upon him.

If Victor couldn't understand that, it was his problem.

~0~

Life became pretty uneventful for the next few months. Sherlock slept, ate, went to physio, experimented in his free time, and not much else. He began to grow bored with the monotony of existence. By the time nine-month scans, and then one-year scans rolled around, he was about ready to tear his hair out in frustration at the lack of things to do in life. Fortunately, he didn't follow through, as it was finally long enough to entirely cover the stupid hearing aids. Figuratively, however, his mind was slowly ripping itself to shreds. Mycroft, ever the meddling older brother, eventually decided to intervene.

"Sherlock, I believe I have a proposition that might intrigue you," he announced one day. Sherlock's curiosity immediately piqued, he listened aptly while Mycroft explained what he had in store:

"I've been in contact with a forensic pathologist, as I know that's a specialty which strongly correlates to your hobbies. Obviously, since your educational background is not comprehensive, a full-time position is impossible to obtain, but I've pulled some strings and she will allow you access to the morgue to assist her and to conduct more in depth experiments."

Sherlock hadn't felt such pure, genuine excitement about anything in a long time. His research options as it were remained incredibly limited due to a lack of specimens. Being granted access to a mortuary and all its included laboratory equipment was like opening the door to an entirely new wing of a mansion. A thousand ideas instantaneously ran through his head, which he'd sort through and prioritize later, but first he needed some more information on who he'd be working alongside.

"This pathologist, you said it's a she?" Sherlock confirmed.

"Yes. Her name is Molly Hooper. She works at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She's willing to take you on as an unofficial intern."

"Just how much string-pulling was required?" Sherlock was always wary of opportunities his brother presented him with. Mycroft could accomplish literally anything he set his mind to, so Sherlock's qualifications had little bearing on where he could go in life. If he hadn't gotten into university on his own academic record, Mycroft would have somehow wheedled Sherlock's way into a full scholarship. But he would've kept it a secret and allowed Sherlock to believe he'd succeeded of his own accord.

"Not much," Mycroft remarked vaguely. "I outlined your background, and she seemed eager to take you on."

"Which parts of my background, exactly?" Sherlock didn't want a pity position. Telling his cancer story was a surefire way to get pretty much anything he wanted. People automatically offered any assistance possible to alleviate whatever residual misery remained after facing such a brutal disease. However, Sherlock didn't want the rest of his life to be driven by that particular chapter. He wanted to get by on his intelligence and wit, not by dredging up a sob story to tug at people's heartstrings.

"Just your remarkable knack for diagnostics and your prowess in chemistry."

"So she doesn't know about any of this?" Sherlock made a vague gesture, knowing that Mycroft would understand exactly what he was talking about.

"No," he assured. "It's not my place to say. You're welcome to tell her in your own time if you deem it necessary." Sherlock didn't foresee such a conversation ever becoming necessary. That part of his past had no bearing on this part of his future.

~0~

Sherlock didn't actually meet Molly Hooper until a week later. He arrived at Bart's eager to start a new, intellectually stimulating, chapter of his life. He didn't need to follow any posted signs to find the morgue; he could practically sense it beckoning him. Despite his long, rocky relationship with them, Sherlock didn't hate hospitals. He shoved the negative associations he'd garnered to the back of his mind and focused on why he was actually here: to work, to use his brain for something more worthwhile than the Perplexus. As he approached the doors, he could already smell the chemicals wafting into the hallway.

The lab was as state-of-the-art as he'd ever seen, much more advanced than any travesty he could set up on Mycroft's table. He recognized the brand of the microscopes on the counter: incredibly high-end. As a child, he'd asked for one every Christmas but had never gotten one any more advanced than one that could be found in every public school science classroom. Some of the equipment he'd never used or even seen before, and he was eager to learn its function. His scanning of the room was interrupted by the arrival of the pathologist herself.

She was a slight woman, with brown hair tied up in a ponytail. She donned a white lab coat, as suited her profession, though there was a meekness about her that most medical professionals had outgrown. Several deductions ran through Sherlock's head, but he kept them to himself for now. He'd learned that it often unnerved people to hear him spout personal information that they didn't know they'd divulged to him. He didn't want to scare her off before they even got a chance to get properly acquainted.

"You must be Sherlock," she stated, extending a hand to shake. Sherlock took it and shook it curtly, managing a half-smile.

"Yes." Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of the fact that this was the first person he'd ever met who didn't look at him and immediately see someone deathly ill or missing a limb. She had no idea of his past trials and tribulations, or of his present disfigurement. All she saw was his eagerness to work and to learn, and Sherlock absolutely loved it.

"Nice to meet you," she greeted.

"Nice to meet you too." He reciprocated the pleasantries not because he thought it necessary—politeness had never much mattered to him—but because he did know that the general populace appreciated manners. He didn't want to screw up this arrangement before it had even started. That would be a very difficult conversation to have with Mycroft.

She asked him a bit about his chemistry degree, and he filled in all the pertinent information. He'd chosen that subject because it was one of few that didn't bore him. Pure mathematics served no meaningful purpose whatsoever, history was entirely irrelevant, and all English-related classes frustrated him to no end. Chem had been the perfect balance of academia and practicality.

"What's your cat's name?" Sherlock asked the pathologist, finally giving in to the itch to reveal his deductions. It seemed an innocent enough place to start.

"How do you know I have a cat?" Fortunately, she didn't seem put off or afraid, just curious as to how he'd reached that conclusion.

"The hairs on your shoulder, and the scratch on the back of your hand." She immediately covered the offending appendage, as if hiding it could make Sherlock un-deduce what he'd already figured out.

"Toby," she answered, looking at him in amazement. Sherlock stood up a little straighter, unused to being the subject of awe instead of disgust or hatred. "What else do you know? Your brother told me a bit about how you can see things."

"I can see that you live alone, that you're currently single, and that you ironed that lab coat three days ago," Sherlock rattled off.

"Wow." She didn't ask him to explain how he knew, which Sherlock appreciated. Outlining his deductions subtracted from the magic of it.

"Shall we get to work?" Sherlock suggested. A dead body lay on the table across the room, and the lack of a Y-shaped incision indicated that the autopsy had not yet been completed.

"Of course." Molly set to work, and Sherlock marveled at the change in her demeanor. She appeared a bit awkward and uncomfortable exchanging greetings and small talk with him, but every hint of shyness disappeared when she set to work. She automatically appointed Sherlock her assistant and demanded he fetch her tools and record her findings. Sherlock considered the work beneath him, but he did it because he needed to earn his place. He'd start small and work his way up to conducting his own research and contributing to the determination of the cause of death.


	17. One-Legged and Half Deaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. I know the characters in this story are fictional adults, but there are real people out there who are affected by cancer every day. A startling high number of them are children. For the rest of the month, every chapter I post will be prefaced by a fact about this disease and its real-world impact.
> 
> Cancer is the number one disease killer of children; ahead of AIDS, asthma, diabetes, birth defects, and cystic fibrosis combined.

Sherlock and Molly approached a dynamic equilibrium as the weeks passed. He became less and less her assistant and more and more her associate. She consulted him on particularly difficult cases, and though he had no medical degree, he had enough prior knowledge and reasoning skills to offer valuable insights. A good portion of his time was spent running experiments of his own design using specimens from unclaimed corpses. In a busy city like London, it was surprising how many John Does actually existed.

As he got to know her more, he began to drop the charade of politeness that he'd kept up when she remained a new acquaintance. He hadn't wanted to jeopardize this opportunity that Mycroft had handed him. But as each day passed, he let more of his true personality slip through. Sometimes, when she was being particularly chatty and he didn't much feel like listening, he'd turn down his hearing aids to quiet her enough that he could completely tune her out. She didn't seem particularly offended at his lack of response to her small talk in these situations, so he saw no contraindication for continuing the practice. She had no way of knowing exactly how he could tune her out so easily, and he had no intention of ever revealing it to her. If Mycroft ever found out he did this, Sherlock would be the one on a mortuary slab, but Mycroft never followed him to work. Oftentimes he forgot to say please and thank you, but Molly didn't appear to notice. For the most part, she did as he asked, her gaze always lingering on him for a suspiciously long time before turning away. Whenever this happened, Sherlock ruffled his hair to make sure it still fell behind his ears the way he preferred it. He could discern no reason for her to stare other than she caught glimpse of the contraptions and was trying to confirm what she saw.

One day, he entered the lab to find a man he didn't recognize talking to Molly. He immediately wondered if his position here was technically illegal and was about to be terminated, because he hadn't exactly gained it through traditional means. However, he gave the man a quick once-over and could see that he wasn't here to discuss any sort of troubling news. In fact, he could read the man's entire life story from that quick glance. Molly saw him enter and interrupted her conversation to introduce them.

"Sherlock, this is Mike Stamford. He teaches at the medical school here."

Sherlock made a quick decision. Instead of throwing out pleasantries like Mycroft had trained him to do, he went straight to the deductions. He announced everything he'd discerned about Stamford and watched his face morph from shock, to disbelief, to fear. That was exactly the reaction he'd always received when he did this sort of thing to his peers in school and university. He'd grown to expect it, but that didn't deter him from revealing these details.

"Molly, I didn't realize you'd told him everything about me," Mike said.

"Oh, no, I didn't tell him anything," Molly corrected.

"Then how…?"

"He can just do that," Molly explained. "Figure out a person just from looking at them. He's really good at it, too."

"So I see." Stamford eyed him almost like a farmer eyes a cow he's considering buying. Sherlock shifted his weight and fixed his hair nervously. Then, the man burst out laughing. For no discernible reason. Sherlock could see nothing funny about the situation. Molly glanced at Stamford and suppressed a giggle.

"I fail to notice the humor," Sherlock remarked hesitantly. He shifted his weight again, feeling the need to move away but pinned in place by Stamford's odd behavior. After what felt like hours, he got himself enough under control to string a sentence together.

"Sorry. I've just never encountered something like that before. You can just read all that? You some sort of psychic?"

"No. I just observe." Sherlock then proceeded to outline everything he'd noticed upon Stamford's person that led him to his conclusions. He didn't usually have the opportunity to do this; the typical response to his deductions was a firm, "piss off," and storming away. Nobody stuck around long enough for him to explain himself. Stamford was different. He listened raptly and seemed genuinely interested in Sherlock's methodology. He'd never experienced anything like it. Victor had been the only other person to not immediately recoil when Sherlock first deduced him, which hadn't been until at least a week into their acquaintance. People didn't like to learn that their personal information was on display to those astute enough to see it.

"Wondrous," Stamford commented. "You'd make an excellent doctor, with diagnostic skills like that."

Sherlock would like nothing less. He'd met enough doctors for three lifetimes; he certainly didn't want to become one. Working in a morgue, he could do, because every 'patient' was already dead and there was nothing he could do to fix that except bring their killer to justice, but working with living patients? He shivered at the prospect. People were unpredictable. Upon hearing bad news, they may lash out verbally or even physically, or blame him for their misfortune. He himself had done plenty of that when he was the one on the table.

"I'm flattered, but the profession doesn't really suit me," Sherlock admitted. "I don't quite have the temperament."

"Understandable. But let me know if you ever change your mind." Stamford patted Sherlock roughly on the shoulder before making his exit. He tried not to noticeably tense up at the contact, but failed. Fortunately, the man didn't seem to notice in his self-imposed cloud of positivity. After he'd left, Sherlock inquired:

"Is he going to be visiting often?"

"I don't think so," Molly replied nonchalantly. Clearly, she was oblivious to how on edge Stamford's choice of conversation topic had made Sherlock. "He just popped in for a chat on his way into work. Friendly bloke."

"Friendly indeed," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Perhaps a bit too friendly.

~0~

Sherlock and Victor hadn't been on the greatest of terms since the Ophelia incident, which was why the envelope Mycroft placed on his desk one afternoon shocked him. The return address clearly indicated the letter had come from Victor, but Sherlock for the life of him could not imagine why his friend had sent real mail. When he wanted to talk, Victor always texted or Skyped. Sherlock inquisitively opened the envelope and found a 'Happy Birthday' card inside.

"Victor, what the hell," he muttered under his breath. Needing answers, he picked up the phone and called Victor. He picked up on the second ring, surprisingly.

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah, that's me. I'm calling to remind you that my birthday was over two months ago and to express my confusion over the contents of this envelope that was sent to me."

"Oh, I know it's not your birthday. Seriously, what kind of a friend do you think I am?"

"Right now, I honestly don't know. If you know it's not my birthday, care to explain yourself?"

"You mean, you don't even know what today is?"

"Thursday?" Sherlock tried.

"The date," Victor prompted.

"March twenty-second." Sherlock wasn't a complete recluse; he knew the day of the month.

"And you can't think of anything important that ever happened on the twenty-second of March?"

"World Water Day?" Sherlock had read about it somewhere years ago and his brain had decided to file it away.

"That's a thing? You probably just made that up on the spot, but I don't feel like questioning it right now. I can't believe you don't know what today is."

"And I'm going to continue not knowing until you tell me."

"Where were you a year ago today?"

"What is this, an interrogation? How am I supposed to remember something so obscure and specific?"

"It's not obscure. You're going to kick yourself when I tell you. Speaking of which…if you take your leg off and whack someone with it, does that count as kicking?"

"Unimportant. And I don't remember where I was exactly a year ago, so you're just going to have to suck it up and tell me or I'll hang up."

"I'll let you. You'll call me back within the hour to get answers."

"No I won't."

"Yes you will. I know you. You can't stand an unanswered question or an unsolved mystery. You'd shake out of your skin."

"I'm not going to deny that. But you'd better tell me soon before I lose my patience."

"I'm not going to tell you. You're going to figure it out, Mr. Detective-Man. I sent you a birthday card for a reason. It's someone's birthday."

"Is it yours? I thought yours was in July."

"No. Why would I send you a card on my birthday?"

"I dunno. You're weird like that sometimes."

"I'll give you a hint, Singlefoot."

Sherlock waited. "What's the hint?"

"I just gave it to you."

"No you didn't.

"Yes I did. I called you Singlefoot."

"You do that all the time."

"I haven't always called you that."

"Of course not, I used to have two feet." Sherlock still hadn't caught on to Victor's tomfoolery.

"Yeah. Until March twenty-second."

"Oh." He finally understood what Victor was making such a fuss about. Today marked exactly a year since his amputation surgery.

"It's Severus's birthday."

"I suppose so."

He didn't know what to think of such an occasion. Should he be proud? Upset? Indifferent? A year was a long time, especially for someone in his situation. Most people like him thought of their lives in terms of months, or even weeks—a year was a concept most only dreamt of. He'd spent a year in and out of hospital at the mercy of his own blood counts, countless medications, and a slew of doctors. And now he'd spent another year ever-so-gradually rebuilding everything he'd lost. Now he could finally begin to think about the rest of his life in terms of years.

Where would he be a year from today? He had no way of knowing. Maybe he'd relapse and be back exactly where he'd started this whole mess. He could be dead a year from now, for all he knew. It didn't much matter. Today mattered. A one-year anniversary signified a lot. Every year from here on out would pass more slowly. A mathematical equation existed, one that calculated the relative speed of the passage of time based on one's age. A single year makes up a much smaller percentage of total life in a forty-year-old than in a five-year-old.

"Did I lose you?" Victor's voice jerked Sherlock back to reality.

"Still here," he confirmed. "Just trying to process."

"See, I knew it was a big deal. Tell Severus I said happy birthday."

"He's not sentient. It's stupid to talk to my own leg like it's another person."

"You gave him a name. That's practically the same thing."

"I only gave him a name because you insisted."

"You picked Severus. If I had spearheaded the whole thing, its name would be Footloose."

"Sure glad that's not the case."

"Hey. I could've done a lot worse."

"That's for sure," Sherlock huffed.

"Unfair. I went through the trouble of buying a card and actually mailing it to wish your stump a happy birthday, and this is how you repay me?"

"As I'm sure you noticed, I didn't even know that today was its birthday. You think I would've resented or even noted the lack of a card from my best friend?"

"No. But I intended for the presence of a card to bring a smile to your face. Did it?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock wasn't lying; the sheer ridiculousness had forced a grin. He stood up and propped the card up on a shelf in his bedroom, positioning it carefully as if it were crystal. "It's a nice card. How many did you look at before you chose this one?"

"Exactly zero," Victor answered.

"Figures." A long pause followed. Sherlock feared Victor would bring up the whole Ophelia business and once again ask Sherlock if he wanted to be 'kept in the loop.' His answer remained the same: he wanted no part of it, especially on this day which marked an entire year out of the loop of misery his life had been. Fortunately, Victor instead cited some reason for hanging up and they said their goodbyes. Sherlock tossed the phone onto one side of the bed and laid down on the other to stare at the ceiling. One year. In reality, the measure was arbitrary. 365 days had been set as an important timespan centuries ago—even the concept of centuries depended on the concept of years. Sherlock didn't know why that was the case, but the world in which he lived ran entirely on this system of timekeeping, so he innately recognized milestones according to it.

He sat up and pressed the valve on his ankle to release the prosthetic's airlock, pulling it off the underlying liner. The routine had become second nature. He held the leg in his hands, marveling at such a feat of bioengineering. The design appeared simple, but he knew years and years of drafting, testing, and revising had gone into this becoming the standard for below-the-knee amputees. The toenails were even paintable, though of course he'd never utilized that particular feature. His first and last time wearing nail polish had been that time he'd allowed Victor to decorate his doomed foot. In actuality, he rarely even took off its shoe—a small perk he'd never stopped to consider. It certainly saved him some time, although that time was cancelled out and then some by the time it took to put on the leg itself.

He peeled off the liner and stared down at what was left of his right leg. One could never fully get used to such a thing. Even though a year had passed, he still woke up some mornings and expected to plant both feet on the floor and walk away. He hadn't fallen like he had that first day home, fortunately, but every time it happened his heart sank a little. The stump itself certainly looked immeasurably better than it had the first time he'd ever seen it. At that point, some of the skin had been dying, so it had looked worse than ever. Now, it was as healed as it would ever get. It might shrink a bit more as the muscles atrophied, but the scars would remain this prominent forever. The bottom of the residual limb was discolored from the grafted skin, and he could vividly picture where each and every stitch had been sewn. In the weeks following the surgery, he'd looked like Frankenstein's monster.

Below his knee sat the faded line from the first, failed surgery. He'd thought submitting to limb salvage would be the end of the world, that he couldn't possibly lose more than that. Of course, he'd been wrong. Ten toes had inevitably become five. Even-toed to odd-toed. Artiodactyla. Perissodactyla. The graft donor site on the outside of his right thigh remained a dark pink color. It looked like a burn, one that should hurt like the dickens, but it didn't bother him in the least.

Sherlock set his leg against the wall and considered how strange it was that he could even do such a thing. Most people lived their entire lives without ever experiencing the wonders of having detachable limbs. He remembered Victor's question from earlier: if he picked up the leg and hit someone with it, could it be considered kicking? Probably not. Not that he'd ever hit anybody with such a valuable and expensive piece of technology. Speaking of which, he reached behind his ears and removed the hearing aids, setting them on the bedside table.

This is what he'd be without the aid of such gadgets. One-legged and half deaf, he wouldn't last a day in the real world. How pitiful, to rely so heavily on pieces of metal and plastic just to survive daily life. That was why he hid them from every new person he met, why even Molly still didn't know. He didn't want his disabilities to be the first thing someone saw. They didn't define him. His mind, which he considered his defining feature, remained completely intact, but nobody would ever see it as such if he let them see the broken parts. If he revealed those, he'd never escape the quicksand of pity.

The first time his parents had visited after his hearing loss had been diagnosed, they'd spoken to him obscenely loud and slow. His going deaf made them automatically assume he'd also gone dumb, and he detested it. He tried to gently remind them that he could understand them perfectly without the deceleration and the volume change, but they didn't heed his request. Even now, he could tell they spoke up when they addressed him directly, whether they consciously decided to or not. He'd almost rather have lost his hearing entirely, just so he couldn't make out the constant sympathy in their voices.

Victor was the only one who knew of his shortcomings yet avoided talking down to him or making assumptions. Maybe it was because he, too, was a victim. Lots of people presumed him a heavy smoker, though he'd never so much as taken a single drag in his entire life. He would constantly remind anyone who would listen that lung cancer didn't only strike smokers. There was no stigma like that for sufferers of bone cancer, fortunately for Sherlock, but that certainly didn't encourage him to shout it from the rooftops. He wanted to hide his history from everyone that didn't already know. If Molly found out, she'd lose all respect for him. He should've known it was only a matter of time.


	18. Trouser Leg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In just 3 days, Americans spend on Starbucks Coffee the same amount of money that the federal government spends on childhood cancer research in an entire year.

Molly found out.

He should've known he couldn't keep a secret like this forever, but that didn't mean he hadn't thrown everything he had into disguising it. He'd worked his arse off at physical therapy to turn his lurching hop of a gait into a barely-noticeable limp. He bought his trousers a bit long now to minimize the chance of anyone catching a glimpse of artificial ankle above his shoe. He kept his hair long, even though Mycroft loathed it.

In fact, Mycroft loathed it so much that he'd passively suggested Sherlock see a barber on many occasions—before he learned the reason Sherlock preferred this style. "How long are you planning to let it grow out?" had been the first sign that Mycroft disapproved of Sherlock's choices. Sherlock hadn't needed a trim in months, for obvious reasons, but despite its curliness, his hair was reaching a length that most men would find a tad much. He didn't tell Mycroft the truth, just replied nonchalantly that he would try it a bit longer than he used to keep it just to see if he liked it.

As a boy, he'd possessed a distinctive mop of black curls. His mother had hated managing them, but Sherlock wouldn't let her cut it shorter. He couldn't even remember why he'd been so insistent on long hair at the time.

The next time Mycroft brought it up, probably weeks after the first time, he simply stated, "I thought you preferred your hair shorter." His disapproval had been poorly disguised. "You look so much younger this way."

"Maybe that's what I want," Sherlock had replied. He didn't want to reveal the real reason—hiding the hearing aids—because disappointing his brother was their traditional dynamic. He'd been excited to finally regain this equilibrium after being the subject of mollycoddling and hovering for so long. Mycroft looking down his nose at Sherlock meant all was well.

Still, he hadn't let the issue drop until Sherlock confessed. Almost every day he'd drop a subtle hint about barbers, until Sherlock simply couldn't take it anymore. "I want it long enough to cover these stupid things," Sherlock snapped, removing one and holding it out to Mycroft. "People stare. And if they're smart enough to recognize these for what they are, they always change the way they speak to me. You don't know what it's like to be having a perfectly normal conversation with somebody, turn your head, and turn back to find they're now practically shouting at you. It drives me nuts! I don't care if I look like a teenager, as long as I don't look like any more of an invalid."

Mycroft blanched. For the first time ever, his criticism had been met with a legitimate counterargument. Needless to say, he never brought up the topic of Sherlock's hair ever again. The first time he got a haircut after the grow-out had been in May, a year and a few months after it had begun to grow back. He made sure to be very specific about the length he wanted to maintain.

Molly found out about a month after that.

Lab safety had been ingrained in every science student since primary school, but accidents still happened. Even in the most sophisticated of laboratories with the most experienced scientists, fingers slipped and the unexpected happened. And the unexpected happened when Sherlock dropped a Bunsen burner.

He'd done things like this before, but certainly not often. He felt his hand nudge it just the wrong way, and he saw it hit the floor in slow motion. His brain immediately leapt into crisis aversion mode. Fortunately, nothing caught fire… except the bottom of his trousers.

"Sherlock!" Molly noticed the commotion and immediately rushed over with the fire blanket. He let her smother the flames—who wouldn't? He had no intention of letting himself burn. Fortunately, she got to him quickly enough and there was no damage done. But, even if there had been, he wouldn't have felt it because it was his right leg that had caught fire. There was no flesh to burn.

"Are you burned?" Molly asked concernedly, reaching to pull up the charred fabric to look for potential wounds. Sherlock tried to wrench away, but failed to move fast enough. He heard all the air leave her lungs in a stunned gasp.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock announced in a futile attempt to change the subject. He tried to pull his leg back, but Molly had a firm grasp on his ankle. He'd dug himself into a hole with no possible escape. She glanced up at him from her position crouched on the floor, then back to the contraption in her hand. Sherlock could tell she had absolutely no idea what to say. Admittedly, he wouldn't know what to say or do either.

"Not burned," he repeated. "Would you mind letting go?" Finally, she released her grip and he took a step back. She rose to standing and met his eyes with the most incomprehensible glare he'd ever been on the receiving end of. He ruffled his hair—the only nervous tic he always failed to staunch. Molly opened her mouth to speak, but paused to reconsider. Sherlock shifted his weight and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for her to figure out how she would react.

"What—how…" she stuttered, at a complete loss. "What?"

"What?" Sherlock tried an innocent smile, but that only made her frown more deeply.

"You know what," she said sternly. Apparently, she'd finally found her decided approach.

"It's a long story-" he tried, but she held up a finger to stop him in his tracks.

"I could figure that much out for myself, as a matter of fact. What I can't figure out is how we've known each other for months without having this conversation." She gestured between the two of them to indicate the current conversation.

"It didn't seem pertinent."

"Not pertinent? How is this at all not pertinent?"

Sherlock knew exactly how to answer that question. "You come here to work, and I come here to work. We work together, yes?"

"Yes." She crossed her arms, listening raptly.

"This doesn't affect my ability to work, nor does it affect yours. I can do everything I need to do despite this. Therefore, it's inconsequential. I don't need to announce it if it's not going to matter." He averred every single word with passion and confidence. Molly considered this explanation, but Sherlock could tell she didn't readily accept it. He decided to repeat the same message in simpler terms: "'By the way, I'm an amputee,' isn't exactly something to add to a resume, nor is it easy to bring up in everyday conversation."

Her gaze fell again to his feet, then back to his face. She seemed satisfied, but not entirely. Sherlock knew what she wanted; it was the same thing everyone wanted after discovering something like this.

"You want the whole story, don't you?"

"Well, of course. You of all people can relate to curiosity," she said. He couldn't argue with that. He sighed deeply, preparing himself to relay his entire history in a reasonable amount of time. He considered sugarcoating it, but he felt that Molly, more than anyone, deserved the truth.

"I had cancer," he stated bluntly. He heard the shocked inhale; he'd been expecting it, but that didn't lessen its effect. "They took the leg a little over a year ago." That was the most concise way to summarize it.

"Oh my God. Are you okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Completely fine. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here." He could see the medical gears of her brain turning at furious speed, desperately wanting to know more, but she respected his privacy. He was surprised at how much he appreciated it.

"A year's not all that long," she remarked.

"No. A year is a lifetime." He'd mused over the meaning of a single year for a very long time, and nobody could ever tell him that it's 'not all that long.' Anyone who said that should endure a year of chemo; that ought to change their minds. "Listen, this doesn't change anything. You don't need to worry about… accommodations, or anything. Just keep doing everything exactly the same as you did before," Sherlock requested. "Please," he added as an afterthought.

"Of course."

"And don't tell anyone." The last thing he needed was for the whole of London to learn of his history through the grapevine.

"I would never. That's not my place. And I hate gossip."

"Good. Me too."

"Do you need to go home now?" she asked him.

"Why?"

"To get new trousers." Molly smiled sheepishly, indicating the charred fabric.

"Yes. I suppose that is necessary." Sherlock smiled too, despite the still-palpable awkwardness of the situation. He'd dreaded something like this happening ever since he met Molly. He'd had the opportunity to know someone who knew him only for his skills and his intellect, and he'd ruined it. He vowed never to let this happen again. Every person that learned of his history was another person who lost all capacity to fully respect him.

~0~

Sherlock's frustration at being found out was nearly forgotten (emphasis on nearly) after his discovery of a new opportunity to put his mind to good use. This opportunity presented itself in the form of one Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The morgue at St. Bart's occasionally housed the victims of violent crimes, not just those ill and unfortunate enough to perish within its walls. Dying in a hospital seemed the worst way imaginable, in Sherlock's opinion. He'd had more time and reason to contemplate that than most, and had actually told Mycroft to ensure he could pass at home should it come to that. Fortunately for all involved parties, it hadn't.

Some high-profile guy had been viciously murdered in his own apartment for an unknown reason and by an unknown assailant. His body had been brought here, bringing with it lots of attention and imminent publicity. Molly wouldn't let him near the body without her direct supervision for fear that his involvement would be questioned. Regardless, Sherlock wanted to be as involved as possible because of the sheer wondrousness of the case.

The Detective Inspector personally visited the lab to check up on Molly's progress after being pressured by the rest of his team to bring back an autopsy report twice as fast as was strictly possible. Sherlock understood their need for answers, but he also understood the tediousness of proper forensic pathology technique.

"Do we have an estimate on timeframe?" Lestrade asked somewhat impatiently.

"I told you, these things take as long as they take," Molly insisted. Sherlock could see a bit of the fire in her personality that she usually hid behind forced meekness. She might seem like a girl who could be easily messed with, but she was far from it. Sherlock certainly never wanted to find himself on her bad side. He'd rather find himself on her worktable.

Lestrade rubbed his temples in exasperation. Sherlock decided to offer his assistance. "I could take a look at some of the other collected evidence, see if there's anything to discern from that while you wait for this autopsy report."

"And you are…?" the DI asked.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock stood up a little straighter and strode closer to offer Lestrade a hand to shake. He took it somewhat reluctantly, but Sherlock refused to break confident eye contact.

"Who are you to suggest you can discern something about this case that Scotland Yard's best has failed to discover?"

"A new perspective is always worthwhile. And I must admit I have a knack for seeing the subtle yet crucial."

"I can vouch for him," Molly interjected. "I know it seems a little under-the-table, but let him have a look at what you've got and you won't be disappointed with what he has to offer."

"Alright. I've got nothing to lose." Lestrade turned to leave, and Sherlock eagerly followed like a puppy promised a treat. The DI's decision to trust Sherlock forged the first link in the chain of events which led to his unofficial employment as Scotland Yard's consulting detective. Not only did Sherlock solve that case in a single day, without the completed autopsy report from Molly, but he snuck into the database of cold cases and solved two of those as well. Lestrade was totally flabbergasted.

"Where have you been all this time? You would have saved me an awful lot of sleepless nights," Lestrade told Sherlock after he revealed the definitive answer to the second cold case. For the briefest of moments, Sherlock considered answering honestly just for the look on the DI's face. Victor would back him up on this one hundred percent, and probably high-five him enthusiastically afterwards. But Sherlock knew better than to burn this bridge he'd just carefully constructed.

"Just waiting to make a big entrance," he joked.

"Please don't plan on a dramatic exit anytime soon."

"Don't worry." Sherlock didn't ever want to leave. He'd never been happier than he'd been the past two days. For the first time in forever, people had looked to him for answers and not the other way around. He would not screw this up like he had with Molly; these people at Scotland Yard would know him only as a consulting detective, as he'd coined the occupation, and nothing more.


	19. New Stomping Grounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The newest drug developed and approved to treat childhood cancer is over 30 years old.

He continued his stint with Molly while also consulting for Lestrade. He was kept pleasantly busy, meaning he had no more down time than he knew what to do with. He became so absorbed in his new life that he nearly forgot about the aspects of his old that still remained. His next set of scans arrived a few weeks into his position with DI Lestrade. He didn't realize how closely they loomed until Mycroft reminded him.

"Coffee?" Molly offered him the day before his appointment. She made it for both of them rather often, actually, and Sherlock never refused her. Except today he had to.

"Not today," he answered curtly, attempting to focus on the work in front of him. He wasn't allowed any, nor anything else containing more than trace amounts of carbohydrates, for it would mess with the mechanism of the scans. Molly wouldn't take a simple 'no' for an answer.

"Are you sure? You always say yes."

"Quite sure." She pursed her lips, but accepted his denial. He didn't want to tell her why he'd refused, but at the same time he had to inform her that he'd be absent for most of tomorrow. He had no idea how to bring it up without raising her suspicions, but he'd have to figure something out. "I can't come in until late afternoon tomorrow," he blurted out towards the end of their typical workday.

"Why?" she inevitably asked.

Sherlock pondered whether to invent a lie, but didn't want to dig himself into an inescapable pit of untruth. In the end, he decided just to be vague. "I have a previously-scheduled engagement. Unavoidable."

"Okay." Sherlock didn't know if she recognized his circumlocution and refrained from prying or if she simply made some assumptions and respected his privacy. Whatever the case, she let the issue drop after only one further question: "Is this engagement at all related to your refusal of coffee?"

He couldn't lie to her after such a masterful deduction, so he answered, "Yes." She nodded once and briefly glanced down at his right foot. For the most part, she heeded his request not to treat him any differently, to pretend that incident had never happened, but he couldn't help but notice her gaze flitted to his right leg more often than it should. He couldn't fault her for that; he'd probably stare too were their situations reversed.

~0~

The rest of the year passed uneventfully, marked by nothing more than a few exceptional cases with Molly or Lestrade, scans every three months, and Sherlock's increasing restlessness. As much as he loved his new life, something still felt out of place. He still wasn't independent, at least not as much as he wanted to be. Every day he still returned to the house of his older brother to wash up, eat, and sleep. Most men his age did not cohabitate with their elder siblings.

The arrangement had been necessary throughout Sherlock's treatment and the early days of his recovery. The list of things he couldn't do independently would've spanned a novel, and Mycroft's presence had ensured Sherlock survived to see another day. He wouldn't have been able to live on his own even if he'd wanted to at the time. Frankly, knowing Mycroft or one of his staff was merely a shout away had reassured him. But now, he didn't need that safety net.

He told Molly as much as they stood together over a corpse one morning in late January. "Have you found somewhere else that you want to live?" she asked.

"Actually, yes." He'd done some research and found the perfect flat in central London, right in the middle of the hustle and bustle. The landlady, Martha Hudson, was actually an old acquaintance of his. Her late husband had been a renowned oncologist at the hospital where Sherlock had spent so much of his time, and she often followed him to work so she could visit patients and distribute her knitwork to those who wanted it. Sherlock had accepted only once: a navy blue winter hat to keep his then-bald head warm. He still had that hat, though he never wore it anymore. It sat buried in the back of a drawer somewhere.

After Doctor Hudson died, Mrs. Hudson didn't stop by the hospital anymore. Sherlock figured the environment aroused too many memories of her husband. He wondered if she even remembered him after all this time. He'd been just another patient on a floor filled with the sick and dying. She'd always been kind to him, and he would love to become a tenant of hers, but he couldn't afford the rent on his own without asking Mycroft for money.

"If you've found a place, why don't you move out?" Molly questioned.

"I can't afford it on my own. I could ask Mycroft, but the whole point of this endeavor is to sever my dependence on him."

"Get a flatmate." This suggestion came, not from Molly, but from Mike Stamford, who chose that moment to make an entrance. Sherlock and Molly glanced up from their work as he waltzed into the morgue.

"Hello Mike," Molly greeted. "What brings you here?"

"Nothing in particular, just had some extra time on my hands and thought I'd pop in for a chat. You're looking to move, Sherlock, is that what I heard?"

"Yes," he admitted. He didn't particularly want to discuss this with Mike Stamford of all people, but at this point he didn't really have a choice.

"Exciting. Do you have a place in mind?"

"Yes. But, unfortunately, it seems I would have to share it."

"Finding a flatmate can be quite difficult," Stamford remarked.

"Yes. My personality doesn't mesh well with many others. I can't imagine many people would want to room with someone like me."

"Not with that attitude, they wouldn't. I find you rather amiable."

"Amiable?" That's the last word Sherlock would ever choose to describe himself. This was maybe the third or fourth time he'd ever interacted with Mike Stamford, and the man chose to describe him as amiable? Clearly he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Yes, amiable." Stamford checked his watch and evidently realized he didn't have as much extra time on his hands as he'd initially thought. "Just don't be too close-minded when it comes to flatmate-searching. You never know, you may make a new best friend." With that comment, Stamford bade them farewell and retreated.

"A new best friend," Sherlock echoed, muttering to himself. "I highly doubt that."

~0~

Sherlock certainly didn't expect Stamford to actively seek out a flatmate for him, much less return that very same day. He thought the man had just offered a suggestion and would be on his merry way, leaving Sherlock to his own devices to find a suitable companion. However, he was sorely mistaken.

Sherlock glanced up as Mike Stamford reentered the lab with another man in tow, one Sherlock had never seen before. With one brief look, he gleaned all the information he needed to know. He knew exactly why this man was here, and an unconventional scheme threw itself together in his brain. If he could get more evidence, he could completely blow this man away. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," Sherlock stated. There was, but Mike didn't know that. However, Sherlock knew that Mike didn't have his own phone on him at the time. He wasn't aiming to get his hands on Mike Stamford's phone.

"Sorry. It's in my coat," Mike apologized.

"Er, here. Use mine." The new man stepped closer, fishing a mobile phone out of his pocket with his free hand. Success. Sherlock tried to suppress a smile as he stood up and walked over to accept the offer. He knew his own limp was barely noticeable, but he kept his eyes on Mike and John to see if either of them noticed anything. Evidently, they were totally oblivious.

"Thank you," he said graciously.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Stamford introduced. Sherlock opened the phone after scrutinizing it, picking out the important details. Now, normally Sherlock would keep these deductions to himself until he got to know the person a little better. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. As a child, others had considered his ability freakish and unnatural, and often they thought he'd been stalking them instead of simply reading them on the spot. He quickly adapted to keep his deductions to himself to avoid a verbal or physical beating.

As an adult, his peers had less of a propensity for teasing, but their reactions hurt nonetheless. Revealing such information generally made people uneasy, so Sherlock refrained from doing so. Most of the time. The last time he'd openly deduced somebody had been Stamford himself, and he'd seemed pretty okay with it. At least, he didn't turn tail and run or fix Sherlock with that stare, the one that hinted, 'you belong in an asylum.' Maybe this man, as a companion of Stamford, would react similarly. This was Sherlock's chance to make a real first impression the way he wanted to.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Sherlock braced himself. That inquiry was the result of quite a long string of deductions based on the man's posture, complexion, and the cane in his hand. Everything about him screamed military, from his haircut to his very aura, and the tan indicated recent service. However, he lacked the build of a soldier, so likely another serviceman. Doctor, most likely, given his acquaintance to Stamford. The severe limp Sherlock had observed upon his entering the room, plus the fact that he was here in London and not still abroad indicated an injury of some sort. The only reason Mike would've brought him here is to answer Sherlock's not-really-a-plea for a flatmate.

"Sorry?" the man didn't appear angry, just confused.

"Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated.

"Afghanistan," John answered hesitantly. "Sorry, how did you know…?"

"How do you feel about the violin?" He interrupted, choosing to plow forward instead of immediately revealing his methods. He wanted to spend the next few minutes building this first impression into an awe-inspiring one—for the right reasons.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock only wished those were the worst things about him. John blinked slowly a few times, struggling to process everything he'd just heard come out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Oh, you…you told him about me?" he directed this inquiry to Stamford.

"Not a word." Mike smiled mischievously, obviously delighting in John's perplexion.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Once again, Sherlock found himself using a turn of phrase that relied on the assumption of being able-bodied. He almost laughed at the idea of 'leaping' anywhere.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock ignored his question, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair and preparing to make a dramatic exit. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry—gotta dash." He strode past John and Mike, making straight for the double swing doors.

"Is that it?" John sounded completely aghast.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." Sherlock inhaled deeply to prepare himself for what he was about to do. This could very well define John's opinion of him, for better or for worse, but Sherlock knew one thing for sure: it would be fun.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock turned and made for the door, pausing briefly to lean back into the room and announce, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." He winked obnoxiously and let the door swing shut behind him. Smirking to himself, he swooped down the hallway and outside. He wondered exactly what John and Stamford were saying to each other right this moment. His behavior had been a tad uncharacteristic, but this John Watson character was his chance to finally get it right. No matter what, he'd always know Sherlock's intellect first. Anything John Watson learned or didn't learn about him at a later date would still come second to that first impression. Not that Sherlock intended to ever let word of his history get out. He wouldn't make the same mistakes with John as he'd made with Molly.

~0~

The next thing Sherlock knew, he stood on the sidewalk outside 221B Baker Street awaiting the arrival of his future flatmate. John's cab pulled up mere minutes after Sherlock had arrived, and the man stepped out gingerly, limping over to stand beside Sherlock. He watched intently, wondering exactly what sort of injury would leave John like this. The sight made Sherlock think of his own cane, which he'd only used for a few weeks after stepping down from crutches but before advancing to walking independently. All that old equipment was stored safely in a distant closet of Mycroft's.

A part of Sherlock wanted to ask, but he understood more than anyone how invasive such an inquiry could be. It was highly possible that John would not be open to discuss the circumstances that had him invalided home, just as Sherlock intended to keep his medical history a secret. However, John surprised him by offering the answer to his unasked question: "It's psychosomatic."

"Pardon?" Sherlock didn't want to reveal that he'd been intently pondering the cause of John's limp, so he feigned confusion. He'd heard the term psychosomatic before; it meant an ailment caused not by a physical injury, but a mental one. That had actually been one of his differential diagnoses when he first started experiencing the pain in his shin, but Mycroft had done away with the doctor who suggested it faster than Sherlock could even open his mouth to insist he wasn't making this up.

"The limp," John clarified. "Psychosomatic. In case you were wondering." Sherlock wondered just how obvious the subject of his thoughts had been. Then again, John probably dealt with this kind of scrutiny on a daily basis. It was the same kind that had plagued Sherlock before he'd been able to disguise his impediment with shoes and trousers. He wondered if John noticed the remaining irregularities in Sherlock's own gait, but figured they were too miniscule to warrant any attention from a man who looked like he'd fall over if you blew on him too hard.

Sherlock commended him for revealing such deeply personal information so early in their acquaintance. Psychosomatic symptoms carried with them a bit of a stigma; many believed they didn't exist, that anyone exhibiting symptoms without a diagnosable physical cause was just making it up for attention. Clearly, John didn't care if Sherlock branded him a lunatic. Or maybe he just preferred to answer these inevitable questions before Sherlock even got a chance to ask them. It was a good strategy, just not one Sherlock planned to imitate. He was prepared to tell his weight in lies before he revealed the truth to John, who was his opportunity for a fresh start.

"Shall we?" Sherlock invited, leading the way up the front steps. Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the door, and Sherlock searched her eyes for any sign of recognition when she looked at him. Fortunately, he saw none. Either she'd forgotten him, or he now looked too different from the emaciated, bald, grey-skinned patient he'd been for her to make the connection. Either way was fine with him, as long as he didn't have to worry about her revealing his past to John.

She ushered them both inside with motherly excitement. Sherlock's gaze immediately fell to the staircase, and he counted seventeen steps leading up to what would be his flat if he chose to move in. Despite all his progress, staircases still unnerved him, though he steeled his expression so as not to alarm Mrs. Hudson or John. He'd already known there would be stairs, it had said so, but reading about them and seeing them in person were two different battles entirely. With more practice, he'd acclimatize to them, and in the meantime he could always use the handrail.

Sherlock's pace up the stairs was only marginally faster than John's, though the other man was too focused on his own ascension to ponder why his companion wasn't moving as quickly as a normal man. Upon reaching the main level, John remarked, "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock added. He immediately fell in love with the quaintness of the flat. He could vividly picture himself living here, playing his violin in front of that window that looked out onto the street below, staring into his microscope on the kitchen table, or thinking in an armchair before the fireplace. It didn't take long for him to decide he wanted to live here.

"There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms," Mrs. Hudson announced. Sherlock startled at her implication, and John voiced exactly what he'd been thinking:

"Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh, don't worry. There's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

John turned his head to look at Sherlock with a glance that said, "Can you believe her?" which he returned wholeheartedly. He'd literally just met this man today, what could she have possible seen that led her to believe they were a couple? John then decided to change the subject, stating, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock blanched, his thoughts immediately jumping to the possibility that his cancer story was somewhere on the internet as a part of some charity's homepage or something. But he couldn't know that for sure, so he cautiously asked John what he knew. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, the Science of Deduction." He couldn't disguise the relieved smile. That was something he was perfectly willing to discuss.

"What did you think?" he inquired.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room yesterday said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor—obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad, though you recently revealed to me that it's psychosomatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, led me to inquire Afghanistan or Iraq."

"And what about my brother?"

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare—you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. It has scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man standing before me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving," John stated. Sherlock nodded, and continued his explanation.

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father; this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently—this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then—six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he'd have kept it. People do—sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them."

"That…was amazing," John drawled slowly.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock had never had his deduction received so positively.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock admitted. What he didn't admit—at least, not verbally—was how utterly elated he was to have his deduction so well received. This was exactly the kind of impression he'd wanted to make with this man, and he'd succeeded. He could not let this opportunity for a new friend go to waste.

They soon told Mrs. Hudson that they wanted to move in. Almost immediately after that had been decided, John requested the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock would have guessed he'd want the other one since he appeared to have so much trouble walking, but he didn't contest. That was fewer stairs for Sherlock to climb on a daily basis.

~0~

Sherlock packed up everything of his from Mycroft's house and moved it into his new room at Baker Street, except for several possessions which he used to rely on. For obvious reasons, the wheelchair, crutches, cane, and his old prosthetic remained tucked away where nobody would happen upon them. He had no reason to bring them along to his new flat, and Mycroft had far more storage space than Sherlock. It was as literal a fresh start as Sherlock was ever likely to get in his life.

He did, however, bring along the shower chair, as it remained a necessity. He didn't need any special equipment for a bath, but sometimes he preferred a quick rinse, which necessitated something to sit on. His leg was not really waterproof, and he couldn't balance long enough to get adequately clean. It hadn't occurred to him that John already owned one until he brought his into the bathroom they would share and found one almost exactly like it already inside.

"Why do you own a shower chair?" John asked him suspiciously. Of course, Sherlock should have seen this coming. John appeared to be able to stand fine, only walking troubled him, but Sherlock had no way of knowing how much pain he was in. Psychosomatic or not, pain was pain, and John probably faced the exact same situation Sherlock did when it came to showering: an inability to stand long enough to get properly clean without immense exertion and discomfort.

But John had no knowledge of Sherlock's own limitations, a state which Sherlock intended to prolong indefinitely. As far as he knew, Sherlock was fully able-bodied and had no reason to require a seat in the shower. He needed a lie, and he needed one quickly. "I only use it every once in a while, when I allow myself a really long, hot shower. Long enough that I'd get fatigued if I stood the whole time," he explained, hating every word that came out of his mouth. If he heard someone say they used a shower chair for this reason, he'd literally be fuming. He hadn't been physically capable of taking a standing shower in nearly two years, and he'd give anything to get that back. Someone who took that for granted was detestable in Sherlock's eyes. John, on the other hand, didn't possess this same venom and accepted Sherlock's answer. In the end, they decided just to keep the newer one and get rid of the older one, since they had no use for two chairs in one bathroom.

The rest of the move-in progressed without incident. It was going to be a lot of work disguising his state from his flatmate, but Sherlock considered the reward well worth it. He'd absolutely abhor it if John looked at him the same way Mycroft did, as a shattered vase that he'd precariously glued together and worried would fall apart again with the slightest jostle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I made it an entire 18 chapters without John. Only one or two readers commented to ask if he'd ever make an appearance. Well...here you are.


	20. In Stride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 82% of childhood cancer victims survive to the five year mark, when they are semi-officially deemed 'cured.' However, children who relapse or even die after five years are still counted among these 'survivors.'

Hiding this from John actually proved easier than Sherlock had initially feared. John never entered his bedroom, and that was the only place he was ever without his leg. The same went for the bathroom. He only needed to put his leg on and get dressed before leaving the room every morning, which is what he did anyway.

Their relationship took a surprising turn when Lestrade first presented Sherlock with the four suicides-that-weren't-suicides case. Sherlock had been following it on the news, and even reminding Lestrade and his coworkers of their incompetence, and was elated to finally be invited to participate in the investigation. He threw on his coat and scarf and hesitated in his mad dash out the door only when John asked, "Can I come?" Sherlock certainly hadn't expected his flatmate to take much of an interest in his work. Was that something flatmates often did? He had no frame of reference, so he had to assume it was a normal thing for friends to do.

"Of course," he replied. "Your insight might be valuable."

"I very much doubt it, but I'd like to see you put those crazy deduction skills to work."

"Okay," Sherlock chuckled. The case turned out to be even more fascinating that he could've hoped. The dead woman had literally scratched a note into the floor with her fingernail—he couldn't have created a better murder mystery if he'd designed it himself. John stood by and watched as he deduced exactly where this woman had come from and what she was doing here, and identified the missing suitcase. The same missing suitcase that ended up sitting in their shared flat after Sherlock's brief excursion to some particular dumpsters.

After Sherlock found the pink case, he returned to the flat and texted John to join him as soon as he possibly could. He didn't know where the doctor was at the moment, but he didn't particularly care when there was so much work to be done. John entered the flat and announced, "Just met a friend of yours." Sherlock found that odd, as the only friend he really had was Victor and there was no possible way for John to have met him.

"A friend?"

"An enemy," he corrected. That made a lot more sense.

"Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?" Sherlock disregarded the question entirely, because he knew exactly who John was referring to. Only one person went around introducing himself as the arch-enemy of Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion of what he wanted.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Mycroft had outwardly supported Sherlock moving out of his house, but he could tell his elder brother still worried for him incessantly and would do anything in his power to keep tabs on him without his knowledge. Introducing himself as Sherlock's 'arch-enemy' though, that was excessive even for Mycroft.

"Yes," John answered.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now." The former part of that statement may have been inaccurate—Mycroft certainly was dangerous when he wanted to be, but Sherlock doubted he posed any sort of threat to either him or John at the moment, but the latter certainly applied. He had a case! He couldn't waste time worrying about his brother's mother hen complex.

He formulated the text for John to send to the victim's phone, which was in the possession of their killer. Then they went out to dinner, to await his arrival. Sherlock waltzed into Angelo's, John limping behind him, and was immediately shown to a table by the front window. Angelo favored him because he'd helped get him off a murder charge a while back, so he explained to John. He asked them if they wanted a candle to make their date more romantic, and John immediately corrected him. Sherlock wondered why two unrelated people had now mistaken them for a couple, but he didn't particularly care. People were idiots and would assume whatever suited their fancy.

"Doesn't it bother you?" John asked, tucking his cane into the corner.

"Does what bother me?"

"People assuming that we're dating."

"Not particularly." People assumed far worse things about him than his sexuality, especially when he'd still looked the part of cancer patient.

"Why not?"

"Why does it bother you so much?" Sherlock questioned.

"Because…because I'm not…" John couldn't seem to string his thoughts together.

"Not gay?"

"Yeah." He seemed relieved that he hadn't been the one to say it aloud. Sherlock could understand why he'd get upset over mistakenly being thought a couple. Straight men tended to take offense to being assumed anything else. The conversation having run its course, they proceeded to small talk.

"Oops, sorry," John said abruptly, scooting his chair a bit to the left.

"For what?"

"I kicked you in the ankle."

"Oh." Sherlock hadn't felt a thing, for obvious reasons. "It's fine." He ruffled his hair nervously. Fortunately, the awkwardness of the situation vanished when a cab appeared on the street outside and stopped without letting anybody out. "That's our man," Sherlock declared, rising from his seat and striding outside, John in hot pursuit. He feared for a moment that the cab might drive off, but to his delight it stayed in place. A mad dash through the streets of London did not sound enticing, especially considering running was not a part of the repertoire of skills he'd regained. However, things didn't turn out as he'd hoped they would, as the man seated inside was merely an American here on vacation. Sherlock dismissed the whole thing as a coincidence, and he and John decided to walk home and enjoy the rare nice weather.

"So, if that wasn't our murderer, why'd he stop?" John inquired.

"I don't know. That text should've made him come running to clean up this mess. He tried to kill her, and then received a text indicating he failed. Why wouldn't he show up? It doesn't make any sense."

It still didn't make any sense by the time they returned to Baker Street, and neither did the fact that John's cane was nowhere in sight. Angelo dropped it off in person a while later. When John came back upstairs holding it by the length with a look of utter disbelief on his face, Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He remembered how it felt to finally ditch his own cane; that distinct mixture of triumph and relief and joy had followed him around for days.

~0~

The climax of the case came when the murderer himself showed up at Baker Street and Sherlock discreetly exited the flat among the bickering police officers. They'd all shown up convinced Sherlock had obtained evidence he was hiding from them, which was somewhat true. The pink suitcase remained here in the flat, but Sherlock had fully intended to show it to them once he solved the case. The stream of them pouring into the flat had almost made it look like a drugs bust, but they had no probable cause to search his flat for that sort of thing. Sherlock had never done drugs in his life—the stronger pain medications had been legally prescribed.

Sherlock followed the man into a waiting cab. Of course, it made perfect sense for the murder to be the cabbie. It was the perfect cover. They faced off in that huge empty room, just the two of them in a battle of wits. Sherlock tried to figure out what the pills contained (he'd seen more than his fair share of pills in his lifetime) but they were unfamiliar to him. He didn't doubt that the cabbie had told the truth, that one was innocuous and the other deadly, but he was willing to take the chance he'd guessed correctly. He was mere milliseconds away from swallowing the thing dry when the shot rang out and the cabbie collapsed in front of him. He was somewhat upset by the prospect that he'd never find out if he'd been correct in his choice of pill, but also relieved and shocked that John would do such a thing to save the life of a man he'd met only days ago. Somehow, meeting Sherlock had a profound effect on the army doctor. Not only had his psychosomatic limp been reduced enough so as to be barely noticeable, but he already developed a loyalty to Sherlock deep enough to warrant killing another man to save his life. That was something Sherlock had never before experienced in a relationship. Victor might be there to lift him up during a particularly rough spot, but he wouldn't shoot somebody. Mycroft certainly would, but he was family and therefore didn't count. Sherlock concluded that John had to be something special, but he wouldn't learn just how special until much later.

~0~

Of course, Sherlock had to tell Victor about his new living situation. They'd promised each other to keep in touch, and this certainly qualified as newsworthy. One evening while John was typing up their latest case for his blog, Sherlock Skyped Victor from the privacy of his bedroom. "Hey!" Victor greeted enthusiastically. "I feel like we haven't talked in forever."

"Yeah, me too. But I've been kinda busy lately. I moved."

"Where?"

"Baker Street in central London."

"You can afford that?"

"Not by myself."

"So you have a flatmate?"

"Excellent deduction."

"You, Sherlock Holmes, the most anti-social person I think I've ever met, have a flatmate? I don't believe it."

"Well, it's true."

"Who is he? What's he like?"

"His name is John. He's a retired Army doctor."

"So you've got a live-in doctor now. Must be nice."

"He's not that kind of doctor. He's just my flatmate, and he assists me on cases."

"If you say so."

"What the hell are you implying?"

"Nothing," Victor said sheepishly. "But I want to meet him!"

"Why?"

"As your friend, I want to meet your other friends. That's how you make friends, in case you didn't know."

"I know how to make friends."

"Really? From what I remember, I put in all the effort in forging our friendship. You just sat there and followed along."

"Yes, I did rather a lot of sitting during that time. But it's impossible to make a friend without at least a bit of reciprocation, which I gave."

"Uh-huh. Okay. So, when can I meet John?"

"I don't know. Next week? When do you want to meet John?"

"As soon as possible. How about Thursday night?"

"Yeah, that works. We can meet you for dinner somewhere, okay?"

"Absolutely. I'm so excited for you. You're a man now, out living your best life."

"Yeah, whatever. See you Thursday. I have to tell John he's being forced into meeting an old friend of mine."

"Is that what I am to you? Now that you've got yourself a flatmate, I'm an old friend?"

"Older a friend than he is, so yes."

"That's not how it works. Just because you have one friend newer than me, that doesn't automatically make me an old friend."

"Yes it does, old friend. Bye now." With that, Sherlock hung up, shaking his head at Victor's antics. He really never tired of his nonsense, even though he pretended to be exasperated. However, he had no idea how Victor and John in the same room would transpire. It would be an interesting experiment, to say the least.

~0~

John enthusiastically agreed to meet Victor on Thursday night. Sherlock was torn between excitement and dread at tying these two aspects of his life together. What if Victor accidentally said something out of line, something that revealed to John what Sherlock really was? He couldn't exactly pull Victor aside before dinner and explain why he was keeping such a massive secret from his flatmate. He'd have to rely on subtle nonverbal cues and maybe one or two sidebars to remind Victor of what not to say in front of John. Hey, worst case scenario, Victor ruined everything he'd carefully constructed in the past few weeks. What could go wrong?

John and Sherlock beat Victor there, so they sat down and awaited his arrival. Victor wasn't known to be a punctual person. When he eventually did arrive, he greeted Sherlock with a signature grin…and his nickname. "Hey Singlefoot," Victor said as he sat down across from him and John. Sherlock internally cursed himself for not thinking this through and calling Victor beforehand to let him know the situation. John looked at Sherlock with a furrowed brow, and Sherlock smiled nervously.

"Victor, I thought I told you how much I hate that nickname," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He glared at Victor, hoping his message somehow got through.

"Why does he call you Singlefoot?" John asked, clearly puzzled. Victor started to answer, but Sherlock interrupted with a quickly-improvised lie.

"It's somewhat of an inside joke. A pun on the phrase doing things 'single-handedly.'" Victor looked like he wanted to explain more or correct Sherlock, but he silenced his friend with a glare. Victor looked back at him with a mixture of confusion, pity, and fear. Fortunately, John accepted Sherlock's explanation without further question.

"Nice to meet you John." Victor offered his hand across the table, and John gladly shook it. "How did you two become flatmates?"

Great, a story Sherlock could actually tell truthfully. He and John outlined how Mike Stamford had set them up. That took up a decent amount of time, but then of course John then asked Victor and Sherlock how they'd met each other. This story had to be entirely falsified to preserve the secrecy, something which Victor understood by now.

"At university. We had a few classes together," Victor said, all the while looking at Sherlock for reassurance. He nodded his approval of Victor's answer. "Rather boring, but we stayed friends afterwards."

"That's nice."

The rest of the evening consisted of meaningless small talk about each other's childhoods, school lives, and current jobs. The conversation only strayed into what Sherlock considered 'danger zones' one or two more times throughout the evening, but all were promptly resolved. Afterwards, Sherlock requested John go outside to wait for a cab for both of them while he had a few words with Victor.

"What the hell, man? Does he know anything about you?" Victor sounded genuinely afraid that Sherlock's entire relationship with John was built on a lie.

"Yes, he knows all about my work, which is frankly all I care about at any given moment in time. He knows how I like my tea and my coffee, which sonatas I can and cannot play on the violin, and which programs on the telly I always commentate over. He knows plenty."

"You know what I mean. Does he know about any of it?"

"No. And I intend to keep it that way."

"Why?"

"Because what he doesn't know won't hurt him. I don't want him to look at me the same way my brother does, the same way you sometimes do. Like I'm broken. When I met Molly, I had an opportunity to build a professional relationship with someone who didn't just see me as a survivor, and I ruined that by dropping a Bunsen burner and nearly burning my trousers off. John is my second chance to have that, to have someone who knows me only for who I really am."

"So I don't know you for who you really are? Just because I know everything you've endured, everything you've lost."

"No, Victor. That's not what I'm trying to say."

"It sure sounds like it," Victor retorted. "Sherlock, you can't hide this forever. One day, it will slip out whether you want it to or not. And I can tell you right now that John isn't going to be particularly happy with you when he finds out."

"I've kept it from him this long, so what evidence suggests I won't be able to keep it up inevitably?"

Victor didn't answer, just looked at him pityingly. "Sherlock, you can't just erase this. You can't wipe it from your memory and live like it never happened."

"I know that. You don't think I'm reminded of that every morning when I have to physically attach my leg to my body?"

"It's impossible to forget the physical stuff. But you're running away from the mental side of it too. You can't pretend that you spent a year in a situation like that and emerged with your mind unscathed. It's impossible, even for you. By pretending nothing happened, you're only making it worse."

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. "Almost two years N.E.D."

"No evidence of disease and no evidence of trauma are two very different things."

Sherlock's phone pinged with a message from John. "Cab's here." "I have to go," he told Victor. "It was nice seeing you again." He stood up and walked out while Victor watched him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, Victor is my favorite almost-original-character I've ever written.


	21. Running Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 95% of childhood cancer survivors will have long-term health issues from the severity of their treatments. Some even die of side effects caused by chemotherapy.

They say fame does strange things to people. To their minds, to their egos, and to their relationships with others. For Sherlock, fame did two things: it tripled the number of cases in his inbox at any given time (thought it had absolutely no effect on their average level of interest), and it conjured the paparazzi. Sherlock hated them. After solving a public case, he couldn't walk out the front door without being blinded by the flash of at least half a dozen cameras. His face decorated newspapers everywhere, more often than not topped by that stupid ear hat that Scotland Yard had gifted him a while back.

For the most part, journalists summarized his brilliant deductions and discussed repercussions of the now-closed case. Some of the more scandalous ones delved into his relationship with John and what might be going on behind the closed doors of 221B Baker Street. John ripped up these articles if he came across them, and Sherlock suspected he would burn them if he wasn't afraid of accidentally lighting the entire flat on fire.

Sherlock typically didn't let the speculations of the press bother him. They were all idiots and would read whatever they wanted to read in Sherlock's interactions with John. It didn't matter what they thought, because they thought wrong. The first and only newspaper article to bother him at all came from a reporter called Kitty Riley. Not only did it bother him, it riled Sherlock into an enraged frenzy.

He would have glossed over the section entirely if it weren't for the headline, "Sherlock Holmes: Hacked or Hearing Impaired?" At the first glimpse of these words, his hand subconsciously rose to touch the device behind his ear. "How could they possibly know?" he muttered quietly to himself before speed-reading the entire thing. From his chair across, John saw Sherlock's frown deepen as he continued to read what this woman had written about him.

Sherlock had to admit she did make a convincing case. The headline was accompanied by another of the many press photos that had been taken of him over the past few months. Several factors had contributed towards a sneaky photographer managing this shot. Firstly, he'd just gotten his hair trimmed mere days ago and it was somewhat shorter than he preferred it. Secondly, it was blustery, and his curls were pushed back from his head by the wind. And finally, he'd been heading to answer a call from Lestrade, so he wasn't paying as close attention as he should have. Plus this particular photographer was bold enough to stand and wait on the sidewalk of Baker Street, and he happened to get close enough for a rushed shot of the side of Sherlock's head.

As much as he despised all the publicity with the deerstalker hat, this was far worse. Unlike the hat, he couldn't just leave these behind. He hated asking people to repeat themselves or shushing other people in the room so he could focus on the person in front of him and not countless background conversations, both of which would be necessary if he neglected to put the aids on every morning. Yet the wild speculation in this article and the ensuing social media firestorm made him wonder if hearing properly was even worth it.

Kitty Riley's article discussed several possible identities of the device spotted behind his ear. She considered that it could be a Bluetooth device given to him by a greater organization that had hired him to help solve a top secret case. Not impossible, Sherlock mused, but also not likely. She also speculated it might be there for someone to feed him information, that his deductions were at least partially a lie. Maybe someone who knew more about a crime scene or a victim was feeding him information to bolster his reasoning, or they somehow viewed the scene remotely and Sherlock was merely a mouthpiece for their deductions. If that was the case, Riley proposed, then who could possibly be pulling the strings of puppet Sherlock Holmes?

The more likely option, of course, was that it was a simple hearing aid. She'd done her research into several models that matched the one shown in the picture, but the photo wasn't distinct enough to know for sure. She briefly touched on several explanations for Sherlock's possible deafness, some more sinister than others. Fortunately, none detailed what had actually happened, that it was merely a side effect of what would make for a much more interesting article.

"What are you reading?" John inquired. Sherlock knew he would find and read the paper eventually, so he surrendered the copy in his hands to the doctor and watched his facial expression morphing from disbelief to mirth to concern. He prepared himself for John's battery of questions, and he wasn't disappointed. "Is she right?" he asked first.

Sherlock nodded.

"About what?" John elaborated. In answer, Sherlock reached up to his ears and removed the hearing aids, placing them in John's hand. He gingerly picked one up and looked at it from several angles. They both knew it wasn't a Bluetooth device from anyone, but neither said a word for several minutes. Eventually, John looked back up at Sherlock and muttered a question, too shocked to bring his voice to full volume. Sherlock didn't catch a word of what he said. John evidently noticed this and hastily handed the hearing aids back to Sherlock.

"Why didn't I know until now?" John repeated. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock offered him the same answer he always offered people who asked that question: "It wasn't necessary."

"What do you mean it wasn't necessary? You're trying to tell me that I didn't need to know my flatmate was deaf?"

"Hearing impaired," he corrected. God, he hated that word. In his mind, it was no coincidence that 'deaf' sounded eerily similar to 'death.' "And no, you didn't need to know. It doesn't matter."

"How can it not matter? Your ability to function relies on those, what if you'd lost one somehow?" He indicated the hearing aids now returned to their perches behind his ears.

"Yes. Unfortunately, I do rely on them." If only they were the only things his ability to function relied upon. John had no idea he was merely scratching the surface. "But why should I go broadcasting that fact?"

"Telling me isn't broadcasting."

"Yes, but if I tell you, who's to say you won't tell others? A secret is weakened by every additional person who knows it."

"Why does it have to be a secret? Needing hearing aids is no big deal, lots of people use them."

"You couldn't possibly understand." Sherlock had a conversation nearly identical to this with Mycroft ages ago, when his brother had been harping on him to get a haircut. His brother hadn't stopped to consider just how drastically they affected Sherlock's daily life, but Sherlock set him straight.

John blinked slowly and earnestly looked Sherlock in the eyes. "I understand more than you'd expect. I just want to know why you feel the need to hide this from me, from the world."

"When the world finds out things like this, they do things like that," Sherlock said, pointing to the newspaper article still open on the table beside John's chair.

"They accuse you of being a puppet?"

"No. They make it their personal mission to figure out what caused it, and it's none of their business."

"I agree, it's none of their business. But is it also none of mine? I'm your friend."

Sherlock thought on this for a moment. In the past few minutes since John had discovered his disability, he hadn't increased the volume of his voice, exaggerated the moving of his lips, or slowed down his speech at all. Most people did at least one of those when they realized they were talking to someone with hearing loss. Some particularly stupid people would nearly shout, seemingly forgetting the fact that hearing aids—shockingly—work properly. Those people gave him headaches. But John hadn't changed anything; he was still talking to Sherlock as if nothing had changed. Evidently he could trust John with this knowledge.

Sherlock came clean: "I was afraid that knowing this would change how you treat me." For a brief second, he considered if John would handle his other secret with this same grace. What if he rolled up his trouser leg right now and told John everything he'd been hiding since they'd met? As soon as the spark of the idea appeared, he extinguished it. There was a big difference between finding out someone used hearing aids and finding out that a chunk of their body was literally missing because of some big, scary disease. John might be able to treat him normally with knowledge of his hearing, but he certainly would not remain the same if he found out about the rest of it.

"I wouldn't change how I treat you just because you need a little help hearing. That's mental," John told him.

"Then an awful lot of people, my parents and brother included, are mental."

"Why don't you just tell them you don't want them to act like that around you?"

"I did. Mycroft's fixed his behavior, but my parents are intransigent. No matter how many times I tell them they can quiet down and just talk normally, they refuse."

"I'm sorry. That sounds awful." John sounded truly sympathetic, despite being able-bodied himself. Well, there had been the psychosomatic limp. John could certainly relate to being stared at for using an assistive device. But ever since that fateful day at Angelo's, John's cane sat tucked away in the corner of a closet, unused.

"All of Scotland Yard is going to see this," Sherlock bemoaned. "Next time I go there, they'll be sneaking up behind me to try to get a glimpse and see if the rumors are true. Anderson's probably going to have a heyday attempting to steal them off my head."

"He wouldn't do that."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"That's cruel, even for him," John insisted. "I'm not going to lie, he'll probably jape about them. But you always reciprocate his insults with better ones."

"True." Sherlock smiled. For a moment, he relaxed, thinking everything would be okay between him and John, and then the doctor just had to ask another question.

"What caused it?" he wondered aloud.

"Caused what?" Sherlock asked innocently, feigning ignorance of the meaning of the question.

"The hearing loss." John gestured vaguely to his own ears to supplement his statement.

"Ummm, I don't know. I was born with it," Sherlock lied. Hearing loss of unknown cause was a thing, right? John showed no signs of bewilderment, so Sherlock assumed his explanation was valid.

"Oh, okay."

Sherlock thought everything would be okay from there. But he and John hadn't been the only ones to read Kitty Riley's article. If they had, all would be well, but the paper was available to many more people, and the Internet was available to those people. By the next day, #DeafDetective was trending.

"This is why I hid them!" Sherlock shouted while he scrolled through some of the things people were posting. "I don't want the public's attention for this, and I certainly don't want its pity."

"It's because you hid them that this is such a big deal. If people had seen them from the start, they wouldn't be freaking out like this," John explained.

"If I'd kept them hidden like I intended, they wouldn't be freaking out like this," Sherlock practically growled. Every word he read only fuelled his ire.

"Sherlock. You need to put the laptop down and take a deep breath," John said calmly. "Nothing you do can change the fact that they know, so you have to work towards accepting it. From what I've read, people love it. They think it makes you more human and relatable."

"I don't want to be relatable," he spat.

"That's too bad. People will relate themselves to you whether you like it or not."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath and continued scrolling. One idiot on Twitter had a theory that Sherlock had been poisoned by a criminal and was embarrassed to admit he'd failed to catch the culprit in time to save his own hide. Whatever toxin it was hadn't killed him, only destroyed his inner ears. Another proposed it was from prolonged exposure to gunfire. Many suspected it was the result of an experiment gone wrong.

"Why do they have to make it their business?" Sherlock questioned despondently.

"You're practically a celebrity," John explained. "People love to gossip about celebrities."

Sherlock could only imagine what kinds of conversations would ensue if his greater secret were ever revealed. He'd probably be on the cover of newspapers and magazines for weeks. The front door would be swarmed with journalists twenty four seven, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to step outside without being bombarded with questions about his history. That was an eventuality he wanted to avoid at all costs.

~0~

"No, it can't have been the neighbor. Nobody reported hearing a dog bark," Sherlock argued to the assembled Scotland Yard team. He'd been trying to explain why the murderer was clearly the boyfriend , but they were failing at following his train of deductions even worse than usual. Sherlock direction his speech mostly at Lestrade, while Donovan, Anderson, and the others clustered around. In fact, Anderson stood uncomfortably close to Sherlock's right side. He took a small step away and began his explanation anew.

A minute or so after he began talking, he felt a cold hand hesitantly brush through his hair. Reflexively, he flinched away and almost smacked the offending appendage. Panting from the fright, he turned to face Anderson. "What was that for?" he asked angrily.

"Explain yourself," Lestrade demanded almost simultaneously.

"I just wondered if the rumors were true," Anderson defended meekly.

"Did you ever consider just asking politely?" John interceded.

"I figured he'd just ignore me." Honestly, Anderson was probably right in this respect. Sherlock didn't think he deserved to know the truth. Unfortunately, Sherlock no longer had much say in whether or not he found out. Anderson had taken that matter into his own hands.

"Ignoring people is rather easy," Sherlock remarked. He reached up and only pretended to turn down the volume, promptly turning away from Anderson and back to Lestrade. He finished his explanation of the case without any further interruptions, and the DI finally seemed to get it. While he spoke, he could hear Anderson perfectly clearly as he muttered to Donovan.

"Did he seriously turn them off just to silence me? Can he do that?"

"It appears he just did," Donovan replied.

"Well, that's just rude."

"So is violating someone's privacy like that," John cut in. "Did it ever occur to you that there's a reason this isn't public knowledge?" Sherlock bit back a smile as he pretended to be oblivious to the conversation occurring behind him. John had leapt to his defense without second thought. Nobody, except for maybe Mycroft, had ever done something like that for Sherlock before.

"Not exactly," Anderson muttered regretfully.

"It should've." Sherlock saw Anderson nod acceptingly at John's comment. After he wrapped up outlining his thought process to Lestrade, he turned back to Anderson and again pretended to adjust the volume.

"I'm sorry," he said without once looking up from the floor.

Sherlock decided to be the bigger person instead of hurling an insult back at Anderson. Not because he cared about being kind, but because he knew it would piss him off more if his ignorance was repaid with forgiveness. "Apology accepted," he said gently. "I can understand a need to satisfy your curiosity. Although just asking would likely have been more effective."

"Okay," was all he managed to say back before he scampered away. Donovan quickly followed suit, probably off to reassure Anderson that he wasn't a complete moron.

"Sorry about him," Lestrade said. "I don't know what gets into him sometimes."

"It's all right. It provided an opportunity for me to remind him what an idiot he is," Sherlock remarked.

"I'll bet he's behind one of the Twitter accounts that suspected you'd been poisoned."

"That's a theory I can get behind," Lestrade agreed. "I can't believe the Internet blew up like it did over this. You're everywhere."

"Unfortunately, yes. As John mentioned to me earlier, I'm the 'hot gossip' right now."

"And for all the wrong reasons," the DI added. "Your cases should get this kind of publicity."

"I couldn't agree more. Yet it appears the public finds these," he gestured to his head, "far more interesting than double murders."

"I can't tell if that's a good thing or not," John commented.

"It is decidedly not a good thing," Sherlock assured. "Nothing should be more interesting than murder."


	22. Thinking on Your Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The odds of getting struck by lightning are about 1 in 14,600. The odds of a child getting diagnosed with cancer? 1 in 285.

Two years. That's how long it had been since Sherlock was officially declared cancer free. He'd still had both legs at that point, but the accident that would ruin the right one was mere days away. Of course, he knew not what would transpire in less than a week, he knew only that the wretched disease that wreaked so much havoc had been eradicated. Whether that was for good remained to be seen. The two year mark meant he needed another round of scans to check for returned or secondary tumors.

This milestone incited more anxiety than any prior, for two primary reasons. One: two years seemed a much more official anniversary than nine months, twenty one months, or any other arbitrary interval between years. And two: this was the first round of follow-up scans since he'd met John. They'd been living together for mere months, but he already felt he understood John better than he'd understood another person in his entire life, barring only Victor, and John appeared to reciprocate this comprehension. He knew exactly what time Sherlock preferred to go to bed and wake up—when there wasn't a case on, because all schedules flew out the window when there was a case on—which foods he would eat when in certain moods, which types of tea he loathed, which mugs he naturally never used for science experiments and were therefore safe for drinking, and which telly programs would always get him shouting at the characters for their stupidity. It almost made up for the multitude of things John didn't know. Almost.

In the week leading up to his appointment, Lestrade presented Sherlock and John with an incredible case, one that had Sherlock working nonstop for three days. In that time period, he slept a grand total of six hours and survived off exclusively water and a single sandwich John had practically forced down his throat on the evening of the second day. Sherlock finally solved it late at night on the eve of his scheduled scans. "You've done it," John marveled with noticeably less enthusiasm than normal. "Now we can go home and get some real sustenance and rest."

Sherlock couldn't agree more on the rest part. His brain coped fine with these long periods of intense work without rest, but often his body couldn't keep up. His entire body ached with fatigue, and Severus throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He probably looked as exhausted as he felt, as John dragged him back to the flat immediately after Sherlock finished outlining his findings to a relieved and exhausted Lestrade.

"Come on," John prompted, practically yanking Sherlock to his feet. "It's dinnertime for you, followed promptly by bedtime." Sherlock couldn't argue, at least not with the second half. Once they arrived home, John immediately rifled through the fridge for the leftovers of the takeaway he'd ordered for Sherlock the previous day, which the detective had never touched. Sherlock always sprang for Angelo's right after a case-induced fast ended. However, today, he couldn't. He couldn't eat anything with significant amounts of carbohydrates without messing up the mechanism of tomorrow's scans. They looked at metabolic rate in cells across the body to look for any dividing unusually fast, and high levels of carbs in his system would cause that rate to fluctuate. So Sherlock just stared at the plate of pasta John had shoved in front of him.

"Sherlock, why aren't you eating? You always eat after a case is over," John remarked.

"Not hungry," Sherlock mumbled.

"How can you not be hungry? You haven't eaten a proper meal in three days."

"I dunno." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm just not hungry."

"You're not getting sick, are you?" God, Sherlock hoped not. If the scans showed it had returned…he couldn't even fathom the repercussions.

"No. I just want to go to bed." Sherlock stood and made his way to his bedroom. He got dressed and crawled into bed after leaving his leg tucked away out of sight. Despite his exhaustion, sleep didn't come quickly. Instead, nightmarish flashbacks of his sickest days from over two years ago plagued him for hours. If he had to return to a life like that, he might just steal John's gun and put a bullet in his mouth before the cancer even had a chance.

He lost track of when he fell asleep, but he woke up with the alarm he'd set feeling no less tired than he'd been last night. He hauled himself up and out of bed, put his leg on, and got dressed, expecting to be the first one up. John always slept in the morning after a long case ended, as he couldn't handle as much sleep deprivation as Sherlock could. However, the army doctor awaited Sherlock in the living room when he blearily stumbled in.

"Good morning," John greeted. "I made coffee if you're interested."

"No thanks," Sherlock mumbled. He plopped down in his armchair and checked the time. He still had a few minutes before he had to leave for the hospital.

"Hey, are you sure you're feeling alright? You're not acting like typical you after a case is finally over."

"'M fine." In truth, the worry was eating him up inside. What if they found something? Something worse than even his initial stage of disease? Two years was a long time to go without any signs of recurrence, but he'd heard of people relapsing after even longer periods of remission.

"You don't look fine. You look…preoccupied," John observed. Damn, why did he have to be so keen and attuned to Sherlock's moods? He didn't want John to know any part of what was on his mind that day, including the fact that there was anything on his mind at all.

"I'm not 'preoccupied.' If anything, I'm 'post-occupied' by that case. Now that it's over I don't know what to do with my brain," he snapped, adding more venom to his tone than John probably deserved. In his current state of mind, he had no room for forcing pleasantries or restraining his temper.

"How about resting it? It needs downtime same as muscles would. You can't run it nonstop like you seem to want to without eventually puttering out."

"I know," Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. He felt like he'd already 'puttered out' from the stress of awaiting these stupid scans. The scans he would be late for if he didn't fabricate an excuse and leave right now. "I need to go out," he announced, rising to his feet and heading for the door.

"Go out? Where?" John questioned.

"I don't know. Just wherever my feet take me." John stood and started to follow, but Sherlock held out a hand to stop him. "Alone. I need to go alone."

"Okay." John held up his hands in surrender and sat back down.

"Don't wait up for me. I'll probably be a few hours." Sherlock strode out of the room and down the stairs to the front door, listening intently for John muttering under his breath or making another attempt to join him. Fortunately, he didn't hear the latter. Sherlock threw open the front door and breathed in the London air. He wanted as much of it in his system as possible before he'd be forced to inhale stagnant hospital air for the next few hours.

Despite knowing this was merely an outpatient follow-up appointment, he was reluctant to cross the threshold into the hospital itself. So many times before, he'd entered having no idea when he'd eventually escape. That fear persisted as he answered all their inane questions and subjected himself to being stuck with needles and stuffed inside scanners that would make a claustrophobe hyperventilate at the mere sight of them. No matter how many times he endured these procedures, mentally they never got any easier.

The same vision haunted him every time: that of the radiologist tasked with looking over his scans, the one who marveled at the countless tumors that had grown impossibly large since his last round of scans showed up clear. Once his imagination formulated that story the first time around, it refused to let it go. Logically, he knew it wasn't real, that the odds of such a severe recurrence were slim, but no amount of reason could wash away the irrational terror.

Actually, it wasn't all that irrational. These fixes could be woefully temporary. Lots of people, several of which he knew personally, marched back off to war with this beast after being told they'd vanquished it. Some incredibly unfortunate patients even fought a third or fourth time. The whole concept reminded him of the Great War. Most people today have never heard of the Great War—well, strictly speaking, they do know of it, just by another name. Today most call it World War I. But at the time, the people bleeding out in trenches and ripping themselves to shreds on barbed wire couldn't possibly know of the secondary conflict that would follow mere decades later. It only assumed the title World War I after yet another war ravaged the globe.

Could Sherlock's own Great War become a World War I? God, he hoped not.

~0~

Sherlock returned to Baker Street and made straight for the kitchen for a glass of water. "Have a nice outing?" John asked from the living room, choosing to ignore Sherlock's lack of a greeting upon returning.

"Sure," Sherlock replied without conviction. 'Nice' was probably the last word he'd use to describe it. He downed the entire glass of water and poured himself another, setting it down on the table beside his chair. John glanced from the glass, to Sherlock, and back to the glass. He looked puzzled. Sherlock drank half of the water and set it back down. "What are you staring at?" he asked John.

"You're acting weird," he remarked.

"How so?" Sherlock feigned ignorance, though he could tell his behavior was off. He took another casual sip and turned his attention back to John.

"For starters, you didn't partake in your usual post-case feast. Well, I call it a feast in comparison to what you eat during a case—which is next to nothing. Still not happy about that habit, by the way, but I've come to accept there's no changing it. Secondly, you refused coffee this morning. You always need coffee the morning after a long case. Always. Then you just up and leave the flat for no apparent reason, which isn't by itself all that strange, but now you come back and you're practically mainlining water. Actual H2O. I don't know that I've ever seen you drink water unless it was from a glass set down in front of you by someone else."

"I'm thirsty," Sherlock stated defiantly. Truthfully, this amount of water intake in such a short time made him nauseous and he wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed. However, prolonged radioactive tracer exposure certainly wasn't good for him, so he'd follow instructions. He finished the glass, filled it up again, and disappeared into his room to take a much-needed nap. John watched him diligently up until the instant he closed the door behind him. He'd certainly piqued the doctor's curiosity, and he hoped John would eventually let it drop and just pass it off as Sherlock being weird. Fortunately, when he awoke a few hours later, John didn't bombard him with any further questions.

~0~

"You're fine," Mycroft's voice told him over the phone. Despite no longer living with him, Sherlock still requested his scan results be sent first to his brother, who could then relay them to Sherlock himself. Should the worst happen, he wanted to hear it from someone he knew and not some robotically placating stranger. 'You're fine' had become their code for 'scans were completely clean' ever since the first time. Sherlock thanked Mycroft and promptly hung up, dialing Victor's number immediately afterwards.

Two years. Wow. Victor picked up on the third ring, and Sherlock held his breath in anticipation of his friend's excitement. "What's the news?" Victor inquired. He didn't have to ask why Sherlock called; he knew the scan schedule better than Sherlock knew it.

"Two years N.E.D," Sherlock answered quietly. The door to his room was closed, but he couldn't speak too loudly for fear John would hear him from the silence of the living room. Unlike Sherlock's, the doctor's hearing remained perfectly intact and inadvertent eavesdropping was inevitable if Sherlock didn't keep his guard up.

"That's fantastic! Such a milestone needs to be celebrated!"

"No, no celebration is necessary beyond what we're doing right now," Sherlock assured.

"Come on, this is an important anniversary."

"I know, but I don't want to make a production out of it. John would be suspicious."

"He still doesn't know anything?" Sherlock could literally taste the disdain in Victor's tone. His friend discouraged him from keeping this secret, but he had no intention of revealing his hand now. He'd come too far to just give up on having a normal friendship with John.

"No, he still doesn't know. And he won't know as long as I'm still here to have a say in the matter," Sherlock avowed.

"I'm telling you, it's going to blow up in your face. Things like this don't naturally stay under wraps for long, and forcing them to do so is like holding a buoy underwater. You might be able to keep it there through sheer strength and force of will, but as soon as that falters even a little bit, it shoots to the surface. And right now John is in the line of fire."

"Stop it with the ridiculous analogies."

"I'll admit the analogy was unnecessary, but my point still stands. The longer you keep this from him, the worse his reaction will be when he eventually finds out."

"And if he never finds out?"

"The odds of that are admittedly not in your favor."

"Why not? The only people outside of the hospital who know are you, me, Mycroft, and Molly. Mycroft respects my wishes; I know he won't go blabbing about it, and I swore you and Molly to secrecy. So unless you're planning on spilling the beans yourself, I don't see how keeping this quiet is such an impossibility."

"John's a smart guy. If nobody tells him, he might figure it out himself."

"He hasn't yet, and he's certainly had plenty of opportunities."

"Fine. I give up. But when he finds out and gets mad at you, don't come crying to me."

"I won't have to," Sherlock insisted. And with that, he hung up.

~0~

One afternoon, a package arrived at their doorstep addressed to Sherlock Holmes. "Did you order something?" John asked, and Sherlock shook his head. Nobody ever sent him packages, so this struck him as more than a little odd. He picked it up and examined the box more closely to possibly deduce its contents. He didn't recognize the return address, nor could he identify for certain what the box contained by shaking it. John opened the front door and started upstairs, Sherlock following close behind with the mysterious box still clutched in his hands. He spent several minutes thinking through potential senders and contents.

"Why don't you just open it?" John suggested, clearly frustrated with Sherlock's hesitation.

"That'll take all the fun out of it," he insisted. As a child, he'd always tried to guess his Christmas presents before he opened them. His success rates had been rather remarkable; however, it appeared he'd lost some of that skill. Sighing, he relented and grabbed a knife to slit open the box. John watched from across the table as he opened it, revealing something wrapped in tissue paper and an envelope. Sherlock started with the envelope, expertly tearing it open. The handwriting on the card inside belonged to a child, that much he knew for certain, but what kid would send him a package? He decided to actually read the letter to find out:

"Mr. Sherlock—I don't know if you still remember this, but your friend Victor proposed an interesting idea to me when we all met in the hospital a while ago. He suggested putting this phrase on a T-shirt, and I asked you if you'd wear one, and you answered yes. So, here it is. We've mass produced these to sell as a part of my fundraising campaign for cancer research. I asked Victor for your size and address so I could send you one. This phrase has pretty much become the slogan for our campaign, as both a powerful statement reflecting survivors' strength and a rallying cry for scientists working towards a cure. I hope you are doing well. Sincerely—Ophelia."

Oh, crap. Sherlock slammed the card shut and kept his hand over it so John wouldn't attempt to read it. He knew exactly what this box would contain, but he had absolutely no clue how he could safely explain it to John. "Aren't you going to look inside?" John prompted. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move. Before Sherlock could stop him, John reached into the box and pulled the shirt out from the tissue paper. He unfolded it and held it up in order to see it clearly. From his position, Sherlock could see the back of the tee, which had the name of the organization Ophelia worked with printed on it, which meant John currently viewed the side with the slogan.

"It's just cancer," he read aloud. Sherlock ruffled his hair nervously and tried not to look like a teenager who'd just been caught sneaking out past curfew.

"Is that what it says on the front?" He feigned ignorance.

"Why did someone you don't know send you a T-shirt from some cancer charity?"

"I actually do know the sender," Sherlock corrected. He intended to wrap up this lie in as much truth as possible so John wouldn't catch on to just how involved in the situation Sherlock really was.

"Then why didn't you recognize the return address?"

"It's more of an acquaintance than a friend. I've never known her address, because she'd never mailed me anything before now. She's one of the people in charge of this organization. Her name is Ophelia."

"Why did she send you a shirt from her charity?"

"I donated," Sherlock lied. "I met her only once, a long time ago, but she shared her story with me. She had cancer, necessitating a rotationplasty to remove the tumor and preserve the function of her leg." He assumed that John, as a doctor, already understood what a rotationplasty was. Sherlock didn't much want to go into the details right now. "She made me promise I'd wear her campaign shirt once she had them all made."

"Wow," John said wistfully. "That's devastating. Imagine losing a part of your body like that…sounds awful." His tone sounded oddly stilted, like he was thinking about each word more carefully than he normally did before saying it.

Sherlock almost said, "Yeah, it sucks," but he caught himself just in time. "Yeah, that would suck," he said instead, attempting to sound detached. "She didn't really let it bother her, though."

"I could never let something like that just roll of my back. I'd probably dwell on it every single minute."

"Yeah…" Sherlock agreed mindlessly. He dwelt on it certainly less often than that, but it still occupied quite a large space in his head. Larger than he wanted it to. Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, Sherlock picked up the shirt and carried it off to his bedroom. He folded it neatly and stuck it in the very back of a drawer. Though he admired Ophelia for her courage and was flattered she'd thought of him even after all this time, he certainly did not ever want to wear a reminder of what he'd once been. Because for him it wasn't 'just cancer.' It had never been 'just cancer.' It had meant the loss of his independence, of his dignity, sometimes of his desire to live to see another day. There was nothing 'just' about it.


	23. Achilles Heel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this chapter is one of my favorites! I'm so excited to finally share it with you.

When Henry Knight first presented himself in their sitting room that morning, Sherlock initially dismissed him as no more than a man suffering from the emotional trauma of losing his parents at a young age. Tragic, of course, but not within his realm of interest. Yet, when Henry avowed, "They were the footprints of a gigantic hound," he couldn't help but turn his focus to figuring out just why this man would utilize such a word to describe this creature, a word that had long ago fallen out of conversational diction. Nowadays, 'hound' was used almost exclusively as part of a particular breed's title, such as foxhound or Basset hound. Nobody glimpsed a canine—of any breed—and said, "Look, it's a hound." Nobody except for Henry Knight.

Sherlock and John set off for Dartmoor, the former practically shaking himself apart with excitement at the prospect of investigating and eventually solving such a fascinating case. He'd already formulated a plan on how to get inside the top secret military base at Baskerville to gain vital intel. He and John obtained a map and paused beside a massive rock to triangulate the locations of important landmarks around them. Looking up at the rock, Sherlock felt the whimsical desire to climb it to be able to look down on the land around it like he was the king. As a child and as a teenager, he'd ascended every tree or cliff he could find a hand or foothold in. However, such a majestic high vantage point would be unattainable in his current state. He stuck to admiring the landscape from ground level.

He overheard the inkeep at Cross Keys apologize to John for failing to obtain a double room for them. Disregarding the assumptions made about their sexualities and relationship with each other, he sighed with relief that he wouldn't have to figure out the logistics of sleeping in the same bed as John. Sharing a room would be tricky enough for Sherlock without the additional obstacle of sharing a bed.

Sherlock drove them down the road leading up to Baskerville, barely able to contain his eagerness for all the new clues they would discover once they got inside. He was so preoccupied he didn't hear John the first time he asked. When he finally did process his friend's question, it threw him for a loop: "Why do you drive with your left foot?"

He'd been doing it this way for so long that it hadn't occurred to him that most people used the opposite foot. Beforehand, he'd driven right-footed, but the lack of nerve response to stimulus of a fake foot on the pedals meant his speed control would be totally out of whack. "I dunno, it's just more comfortable," he remarked, pretending like the question hadn't rattled him. The mere fact that John observed him closely enough to pick out this detail made him wonder what else the doctor noticed about him.

"But you're not left-handed, are you?"

"No." Sherlock really wished he would change the subject.

"Strange."

"I guess it is. And you—you're left-handed?"

"Yes," John replied.

"But you drive right-footed?"

"Yeah."

"So why is it strange that I, as a right-handed person, drive left-footed?" Sherlock smirked to himself; he really had John cornered. The doctor pondered this for a moment before throwing his hands up in mock surrender. Crisis successfully averted, Sherlock concerned himself with getting inside the base. Mycroft's identification should give them a solid twenty minutes of exploration before alarms were sounded. As long as they weren't required to pass through a metal detector of any sort, everything would work out. With all the hardware in his lower leg keeping the bone fragments together, he'd certainly set it off and warrant a complete search—a circumstance which he wanted to avoid at all costs. Fortunately, metal detection was not part of their security measures and twenty minutes proved long enough to suit Sherlock's investigative needs. Poor John had absolutely no idea what was going on the entire time, and Sherlock secretly relished in his confusion. He'd always liked knowing more than those around him, a privilege which he'd rarely gotten to enjoy.

Trekking the terrain of the moor challenged him, but he couldn't possibly solve the case without visiting the scene of the crime. He could feel his limp become more pronounced on the uneven ground, but in the dark it wouldn't be noticeable. Besides, everyone around remained focused on scanning the surrounding woods for signs of the mutant super dog they hunted. Sherlock, too, kept his eye out for signs of movement, raptly turning his head at every rustle of leaves or snap of twigs. Between the fog and the darkness he couldn't make much out, but the ice in his veins told him there must be something lurking just beyond his field of view.

The wind gusted through the branches, and the fog seemed to thicken even more. Sherlock inhaled sharply in an attempt to calm himself from the rising uneasiness. His skin crawled with goosebumps, and he jittered as if he'd just downed three shots of espresso in the span of fifteen seconds. Every miniscule noise made him jump. His flashlight provided a pitiful amount of illumination that only served to startle him more when he scanned over something moving. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a snatch of black fur. He immediately turned his light onto the spot where the creature had been, but found only empty space. Once again, he caught a flash of something running by mere meters away, but when he looked at the spot more directly, nothing appeared.

His head swam. Black shapes, some with two red pinpoints of light on their heads, darted in and out of the edges of his visual field. No matter how quickly he turned to follow them, they always remained just out of focus, like the carrot dangled in front of a donkey by its rider to coax it to move forward. Every sound amplified itself in his head until his brain pounded with a crescendo of creaks and crackles. Each new inhale drowned him in the earthly scent of the moor combined with the noxious odor of antiseptic and vomit, and he switched to panting through his mouth just to avoid it. He thought he'd known what it meant to be afraid, but he'd never even come close. This was beyond fear—this was panic. He finally understood why Henry so vehemently opposed returning here. The entire place reeked of terror.

Though they eventually made their way out of the moor, Sherlock stayed rattled for hours. The taste of bile refused to erase itself from his tongue and he kept glancing over his shoulder when he thought he felt the breeze of something running behind him. When he settled in front of the fireplace at the inn that night, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to logically contemplate everything he'd experienced.

He saw the hound. That much was beyond a doubt. But there could be no such thing as a monstrous devil dog roaming the moors of Dartmoor, Baskerville or no Baskerville. Yet if it wasn't a monster dog, what was it that he'd seen? He still hadn't reached a verdict of any sort on this dilemma when John eventually joined him. Sherlock stared into the flames while John talked at him, half listening while he mentioned the mental state of Henry Knight, the marketability of mutant dogs, and something about flashing Morse code. None of it mattered. Not when everything Sherlock thought he knew about the world had just been called into question.

"Henry's right." Sherlock blurted out, never breaking his gaze.

"What?" John clearly didn't believe him.

"I saw it too." He could hear the waver in his voice and wished he could somehow get rid of it, but the residual effects of that night's trauma remained in full effect.

"Just a minute. You saw what?" John had leaned a bit closer to analyze Sherlock's verbal response and his body language.

"A hound, out there in the hollow. A gigantic hound." There could be no question that was what he'd seen. What else would have glowing red eyes? Or move seemingly at the speed of light?

"We have to be rational about this, okay?" John sounded like he was goading a toddler into doing something not fun. Let's just stick to the facts."

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be true."

"What does that mean?" John questioned. Sherlock didn't answer, instead reached for the drink he'd obtained earlier. He usually abstained from alcohol because he hated the way it dulled his senses, but tonight he'd needed a way to quiet the raging nerve impulses relentlessly firing into his brain. His hand trembled. Trembled worse than it ever had, even in his moments of peak physical weakness. It trembled almost violently enough for him to spill.

"Look at me. I'm afraid, John." He took a dramatic sip of his drink. "Always been able to keep myself distant… divorce myself from…feelings. But look, my body's betraying me. Interesting, yes?"

The truth was, this had very little to do with the monstrous hound and everything to do with Sherlock's monstrous past. Something had to be coursing through his system to make him react like that—something chemical. Naturally produced hormones did not cause of panic response of such severity, not without a more of a physical stimulus than some rustling branches. Sherlock had been drugged. He knew the feeling, knew the aftertaste that would stick to the inside of his mouth for hours, sometimes days afterwards.

This wasn't the first time he'd seen things that weren't really there. The first, however, had sprung not from top secret military bases or genetically engineered beasts, but from run-of-the-mill pre-procedural anxiety.

At twenty four years old and a man grown, he should've been able to handle it no problem. Yet for some reason the idea of having a port installed had rooted itself in his brain as something far more sinister than it really was. Despite all Mycroft's attempts to calm him in the preceding hours, he couldn't bring himself to sit still. It wasn't the procedure itself that frightened him, but the knowledge of everything that would come shortly after. By consenting, he was facilitating the entrance of poison into his veins. No part of him wanted to go through with any of it; he wanted to run and hide in some busy corner of London where no one could ever find him. Through no conscious effort of his own, he fought off everyone who tried to stick him. Some Mr. Hyde-esque part of him awakened and acted of its own accord to protect him from what it perceived as dire threats to his personal safety.

A stern talking-to from Mycroft, the details of which he only hoped he could someday forget, brought him back to his senses enough for a particularly efficient nurse to get in an IV for sedation. That marked the end of the battle on their part, but Sherlock mentally continued fighting through the fog that had settled over his consciousness. He felt the first local anesthetic injection go in, and his left hand came up haphazardly in an attempt to bat it away. Another hand promptly placed it back by his side and the rest went off without a hitch.

Several hours later and he thought he'd be through the worst of it, but the heavy sludge his brain had become refused to solidify into coherence. If anything, it had gotten worse. He doesn't really remember what happened exactly, just a dizzying blur of bright colors. The details were shrouded in drug-induced haze. However, one thing was certain: it was the most terrifying experience of his life up to that point.

Sometimes in his dreams he got flashes of Mycroft's concerned face hovering above him, or strong hands wrapping themselves around his wrists and pinning them to the bed beneath him. What he did remember clearly is his brother's summary of the events, which he'd provided to Sherlock the day after when his head had finally stopped throbbing. Apparently he'd experienced a particularly bad reaction to the sedative they'd given him before installing the port, one that made him hallucinate. When Sherlock asked what they suspected caused the reaction, Mycroft replied, "I think you just got yourself a bit too worked up over this whole thing. Your own anxiety fuelled whatever physical reaction your body had to the Midazolam. Needless to say, they're never giving you that again."

It was this years-old conversation that contributed to Sherlock's reaction to John's next statement: "You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you've just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up."

"Worked up?" Why did he have to use the exact same phrasing Mycroft had? The phrase seemed to trivialize his experience as a figment of his imagination, made it seem like it was all his fault. Well, it wasn't. Sometime between his arrival here and their trip onto the moor, he'd been drugged. It was the only possible explanation.

"It was dark and scary…" John attempted to rationalize.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock insisted vehemently. He did not overreact; he was a victim of biochemical warfare.

"Sherlock…"

He lost it. "There is NOTHING wrong with me!" He was shouting now, but couldn't bring himself to care. "Do you understand?!" He wanted—he needed—John to understand why he couldn't just pass this whole thing off as Sherlock being dramatic or demented in some way. He needed to show him that his mental faculties were otherwise intact, that his behavior was the result of something other than simply being 'worked up.' So he singled out a pair dining nearby and fired off the most rapid-fire set of deductions he'd ever spoken aloud. His mind usually kept well ahead of his mouth when he explained his findings, but this time he found himself racing to keep ahead of his lips as they formed the words he'd only just chosen to speak aloud. "So you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just leave me alone." He punctuated each word with as much venom as he could muster. He couldn't be around John while in this fragile a state because he ran the risk of letting something slip. Fortunately, his tactics worked and John stood up and walked away without another word.

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath and clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. He'd thought he was past this, that the memories no longer held any power over him. Evidently, they still clutched him in their vice-like grip, despite his many attempts to banish them. Every memory pertaining to that troublesome time period was tucked away in a basement room of the mind palace, behind a thick, oak door marked with a yellow ribbon. Many times he'd attempted to pluck them out and delete them once and for all, but they always weaseled their way back into a different room before migrating back to where they'd started. It was as if they'd rooted themselves into the very foundation of the mind palace, and could regrow after he'd chopped off the stems. With everything else, he was able to simply choose to forget. It worked with the solar system, the names of John's girlfriends, and Lestrade's first name, so why wouldn't it work with this, something that occupied far more space than it should be allowed to?

After nearly an hour more of watching the flames dance, Sherlock finally calmed down enough to return to the room. John had already fallen asleep when he returned, so Sherlock got dressed as quietly as possible. Before he put on his tee shirt, his fingers found the short ridge of scar tissue on his chest where the port had been. "All that is behind you now," he reminded himself. And it was, but that didn't mean he was free of its burden.

~0~

The rest of the investigation proceeded after Sherlock apologized to John for his behavior last night. Sherlock was right—it was a drug—although he'd been initially mistaken about its source. His experiment with John had proven that conclusion. Admittedly, he hadn't suspected Dr. Franklin from the start. He could usually sniff out a criminal from a single glance, and he'd been provided with far more than that. Regardless, he didn't expect the man would blow himself up. Nor did he expect John's reaction.

He remembered their first few minutes here, looking at the map of the area and the landscape spread out before them. They'd identified a minefield, the same minefield onto which Franklin ran in his haste to escape them. Sherlock and John hadn't even chased him, yet he'd still run. They stepped close enough for a perfect view of the ensuing fireball and for a taste of the shockwave. Sherlock was visibly horrified—but John hit the deck screaming.

As soon as the bomb went off, John dropped to the ground and threw his arms over his head. Even long after the smoke began to clear, he remained locked in that position. It didn't take a genius like Sherlock to make the connection between what had just transpired and what John must've witnessed countless times during his tenure in Afghanistan. "John!" Sherlock called, sitting down by his side to reassure him. "John, it's alright." Hesitantly, he rested a hand on John's back. The other man flinched, but Sherlock could feel the anxious tension slowly drain over the course of the next minutes. "We're far away, nobody's hurt," Sherlock reminded him. Well, nobody except Dr. Franklin, but he probably deserved it. Eventually, John withdrew his arms and Sherlock helped him to sit up. He looked him in the eyes and asked sincerely, "Are you all right?" John nodded exhaustedly. Sherlock stood and extended a hand to John to raise him to his feet. Still trembling, but able to walk, John made his way out of the moor with the rest of them. John didn't mention the incident the next day, or any days following, and Sherlock didn't force him to bring it up.

In fact, neither of them ever mentioned the other's state of mind during the Baskerville case. They both recognized that they'd each suffered a rare moment of weakness, and acknowledged the fact that neither wanted to dwell on it.


	24. The Shoe's on the Other Foot

"I see you've settled into your new routine rather nicely, brother mine," Mycroft observed. After his failed attempt to recruit John as a spy, the elder Holmes had remained almost completely removed from Sherlock's life. The last time they'd spoken had been to report his two year scans. When Sherlock's phone rang and he saw that it was his brother calling, he suspected this would be a longer conversation, so he sequestered himself alone in his bedroom. They would likely drift to topics still hidden from John.

"Probably because you've bugged the flat," Sherlock remarked.

"I've done nothing of the sort. I trust you to take care of yourself without my supervision."

"So if I search the room right now I won't find any cameras or microphones?"

"No, you will not. Really, Sherlock, do you really think me so juvenile as to spy on you?"

"You tried to recruit John to feed you information," Sherlock pointed out.

"I was regrettably paranoid at the time."

"Paranoid? Mycroft, this fact may elude you, but I am an adult. I don't need a minder."

"I know you don't need me anymore, but that doesn't eclipse the fact that I worry about you. Constantly."

"Look, I get that I used to be a lot to handle," Sherlock sighed. He remembered vividly how much effort Mycroft had been forced to put in to keep Sherlock out of hospital between chemo doses. He hadn't always succeeded, of course, because complications were inevitable, but he'd beaten himself up every time a fever snuck in or mucositis had been just severe enough to jeopardize his nutrition. "But that phase of our lives is over," he continued. "You can stop fretting over me."

"I know. But I still have to check up on you every once in a while. Is everything going alright?"

"Yes, Mycroft. Everything's fine."

"All your equipment is functioning properly?"

"I can hear you, can't I? And I'm having this conversation standing up, in case you were wondering."

"I'm assuming that's your condescending way of saying yes?" Mycroft drawled.

"You'd be correct."

"I'm not trying to be stifling—"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I just want to let you know that I'm just a call away if you ever need anything."

"Unless you're busy with work, of course," Sherlock amended.

"My work does not take precedence over you, Sherlock." He knew that. He'd witnessed firsthand how Mycroft willingly neglected his job when his little brother was in need. Now that the situation wasn't so dire, he was less inclined to back out of a conference call or overseas trip.

"Thank you for the offer. I think both John and I are quite alright for the time being."

"And John is still in oblivious to your condition?" Mycroft sounded somewhat hopeful, as if he'd been secretly wishing Sherlock would reveal everything to his flatmate.

"Don't call it a 'condition.' I hate that word," Sherlock snapped.

"Then what would you prefer I say?"

"I'd prefer you don't talk about it at all. And to answer your question, he knows about the hearing loss now, just not what caused it. That journalist Kitty Riley published that article, and I was forced into revealing it. He thinks it's congenital."

"You still have no intention of telling him?"

"My intentions are none of your concern."

"I'll take that as a no, then."

"Take it as you will."

"Alright," Mycroft conceded. "But you do understand that what you're doing is atypical and potentially detrimental to the friendship you've built with John? Should he ever discover this aspect of your life, he will feel betrayed that you kept it from him."

"You're assuming he'll find out. You underestimate me."

"And what if you underestimate John? You don't get along with idiots, Sherlock, your resident army doctor is very sharp. The smallest of slip-ups could raise his suspicions."

"I don't make even small slip-ups," Sherlock insisted. In all the time he'd known and lived with John, there hadn't even been a close call. Sherlock was clever, and he was quick. One time John had knocked on his bedroom door after Sherlock had taken his leg off for the night. He grabbed the nearest pillow and tossed it carefully across the room to cover the prosthetic, and it landed perfectly. He then pulled his knees in so his one foot wasn't sticking up and tenting the covers. John entered the room and asked where Sherlock had put the medical textbook he'd borrowed the other day. Sherlock told him where he'd stowed it, and the doctor left the room none the wiser. That incident was the closest call Sherlock could remember; John remained completely oblivious to his flatmate's leglessness.

"Maybe you haven't slipped up yet, but nobody is perfect. Not even you, brother mine."

"You think I don't know that? Perfect people's cells don't start growing wildly out of control like weeds."

"That particularly circumstance was beyond your control," Mycroft assured. Of course Sherlock knew that no mistake of his had caused his cancer, that it was pure rotten luck and a bad draw from the gene pool.

"Yeah, whatever. Goodbye, Mycroft." He was done entertaining his elder brother's pompousness.

"Goodbye." Sherlock hung up the phone and exhaled dramatically. The day his brother stopped treating him like a child would be the day Victor went an entire hour without making a bad joke.

"Who were you talking to?" John asked when Sherlock finally emerged from his bedroom.

Sherlock answered, "Mycroft."

"What did he have to say?"

"Nothing of importance. Just a man looking to pester his younger brother with inquiries about his sleeping hours and whether he was taking multivitamins."

"Mycroft asked you if you take multivitamins?"

"Not exactly. It's just the sort of question he asks. In case you didn't already know this based on the fact he tried to hire you as a spy, he's a bit of a helicopter parent. Only I'm not actually his son."

"Hey, it's better than having nobody," John reminded him. Of course, Sherlock remembered the doctor's own sister was estranged from John because of her alcoholism. Between the two of them, Sherlock certainly had drawn a higher card when it came to siblings. Though he pretended to hate him and be irked by his every word, Sherlock wouldn't trade Mycroft for any sibling in the world.

~0~

During particularly grueling cases, Sherlock kept his leg on for longer periods of time than he ought to. Technically, he was supposed to take it off at least once or twice a day to clean it and rest Severus, but when he was distracted by work he often neglected that routine. Sometimes his thigh started to cramp up when he did this, but it was never severe enough to dissuade him from pushing forward.

Until a case had him trekking around London for four days following a string of seemingly unconnected robberies.

John simply couldn't keep up with Sherlock's immutable work ethic; he'd gone back to Baker Street at least once a day since the case began, leaving Sherlock to continue working alone. Despite a quiet, logical voice in the back of his head telling him that he needed a rest, Sherlock refused to stop seeking answers.

He and John were currently in an open field outside the city searching for a possible burial site of stolen goods. Sherlock's right leg had been cramping on and off for the past few hours, but he sequestered the pain impulses to a tiny corner of his brain and let rapid-fire deductions take over the rest of it.

In retrospect, he should've listened to the pain.

Because the pain was followed suddenly by shortness of breath.

Which was accompanied by dizziness and a blackening of the edges of his vision.

Sherlock groaned, the only sound he found himself capable of making as the pain in his thigh spiked and his head continued to spin. "Sherlock?" he heard John's voice call from many meters away. He knew he was going to faint if he remained standing any longer, so he lowered himself to the ground and put his head between his knees. His chest felt like it had been filled with solid concrete; it hurt to breathe. No stranger to pain, Sherlock tried to shove it all aside and focus on breathing, but the agony overwhelmed him.

The muscles of his right thigh must've been in full tetanus. The last time he'd felt pain of this caliber, he'd fallen on the stairs and destroyed his newly-repaired leg badly enough to necessitate amputation. "Sherlock!" John's voice sounded closer and more panicked, but Sherlock couldn't muster a response. The black clouds on the edges of his vision encroached, until he saw only a pinpoint of light in the center of his visual field.

"Sherlock!" John's frightened shout was the last thing he heard before the pinpoint of light winked out and unconsciousness ripped him away.

~0~

The smell registered before anything else, a scent he knew all too well. Its aching familiarity burned his nostrils. The next sensation he recognized was the tickling of an oxygen cannula across his face, whistling softly. Eventually, he managed to open his eyes to the stark white ceiling above him. He scanned the faint pattern on the ceiling tiles—not one he remembered—and concluded he must not be in the oncology ward. His old room's ceiling included a cluster of dark speckles shaped vaguely like a smiley face.

He picked his aching head up ever so slightly to glance down at his feet. Correction: foot. "NO!" he thought. He remembered being alone with John in a field on that case, then the pain and distinct difficulty of breathing, then nothing. Now he was here, legless. Someone other than himself had taken it off during the in between. And John had probably seen. Sherlock was ruined! Years of sneaking around his own flat and lying to his friend all wasted because of…what exactly? What had happened?

He heard someone off to his left clear his throat, someone familiar. A quick glance proved the man beside him was, in fact, John. He stared back at Sherlock with an indescribable look in his eyes. Solemnity mixed with pity, with a dash of deviousness. Sherlock blinked heavily to reassess John's expression, because the emotions he'd just read didn't make any sense. He opened his mouth to speak, but John shook his head to silence him.

"I would say that you owe me one hell of an explanation, but that would be rather hypocritical," John remarked.

"Huh?" The muffled syllable that escaped Sherlock's lips was not caused by residual weakness, but by utter confusion. Hypocritical? What could John possibly mean by that? Sherlock let his gaze drift downwards towards the doctor's feet—wait a minute. Somewhat freaked out, Sherlock turned his attention to the wall near the foot of the bed. Against it leaned his own prosthetic…and next to his sat someone else's.


	25. Walk a Mile in John's Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now...that chapter you didn't know you've all been waiting for!

"It's been quiet today," Bill Murray remarked.

"Don't jinx it," John told him. They hadn't had a new patient since yesterday, and he'd only required a few stitches for a cut he'd received from a loose nail while scoping out an abandoned shack. Their last major trauma case had been nearly a week ago, when a patrol encountered enemy fire. Fortunately, no fatalities, but a few of the men had to be sent home. Though he lived for the thrill of saving lives, John's conscience preferred slow days because that meant fewer life-changing injuries.

"Did you ever read All Quiet on the Western Front in school?" Murray asked. During their time in the army together, they'd grown closer and often shared stories when they weren't busy packing wounds or stabilizing patients.

"Nope."

"It's a World War I book. Basically the reader gets a firsthand look of how horrific life in the trenches is and grows attached to these characters only to watch them die. And at the end, the country's report of the day was 'all quiet on the western front,' which really seems mental after all these people lost their lives. In the grand scheme of war, individual soldiers hardly matter."

"They don't," John said pessimistically. "World War I was practically a four-year stalemate. It didn't matter if people died unless they gained significant ground against the enemy, or perished in numbers great enough to allow that enemy to advance."

"Disturbing, isn't it?"

"Everything about war is."

"Then why did you join the army?"

"To reduce that disturbing death toll. Every life we save is a person who doesn't become a nameless casualty." That mantra had inspired John to become a doctor in the first place. The army part came about as a financial necessity; he couldn't afford medical school on his own, and his alcoholic father offered no support whatsoever. He'd abandoned home as soon as possible after graduation, studied manically through university, then enlisted. Something about having the power to prevent another person from dying empowered John like nothing else ever could.

Out here in the middle of a warzone, he did an awful lot of preventing people from dying. Gunshot wounds, traumatic amputations, severe burns, he treated it all with Bill Murray by his side. They'd met on a previous tour and instantly clicked as a medical team. Murray seemed to know which tools John needed before he verbally requested them and which course of action to take with a given injury. They worked seamlessly together, which is why they'd been assigned to the same base the second time around.

John loved almost everything about his job. Boredom seldom crept up on him like it would if he resigned himself to work in a clinic or something benign like that. His patients' injuries constantly challenged him, and no two cases were ever the same. The excitement of being near active combat, knowing the stakes, and saving the lives of heroes protecting their country all motivated him. The camaraderie of the military remained unmatched by any team he'd ever been a part of. He trusted these men with his life, as they trusted theirs to him. Despite the horrors he witnessed nearly every day, he wouldn't trade this life for anything.

"They should give you a medal for that," Murray stated. "Most of the guys out here just do it for the glory or to quench some primitive bloodthirst."

"They don't award medals simply for good intentions."

"Well, maybe they should," Murray concluded. Mere seconds after that remark, a man ran up to them panting, a look of pure terror in his eyes. John's brain immediately switched into combat mode.

"What's wrong?" he asked the soldier sternly.

He stood with his hands on his knees attempting to catch his breath after clearly running a long distance in the Afghan heat. "Explosion," he managed. "About a mile west of here."

"Let's go." John nodded to Murray. They snatched up equipment and followed the man back the way he'd come. On the way there, they interrogated him about the situation.

"It's a minefield out there," the soldier explained breathlessly. "IEDs everywhere. I saw the first one go up, taking three guys with it, and I bolted. Heard at least two more go off behind me."

John mentally prepared himself for the disaster zone he knew they'd find upon arriving. The first glimpse of human life he caught sight of: a severed arm still weeping blood. Swallowing back bile, he and Murray advanced further. John scanned the ground around him for signs of wounded soldiers, but found nothing except the occasional smoldering scrap of clothing or discarded gun.

"Find anyone?" he shouted to Murray, who'd taken his search several meters in another direction.

"No. You?"

"Nobody living," John replied desolately. He hated not finding any survivors when summoned to a scene. His job description did not focus on removing corpses, but on rescuing people.

"Be careful," the soldier warned as he followed closely behind. "We don't know how many mines were here to begin with. There could still be live ones." John heeded his words and advanced slowly, watching and listening for signs of life. Just as he was about to give up hope, he heard a moan from ahead of him.

Immediately, he picked up the pace. A few steps later, and he could make out the shape of a body laid out on the ground. The gears in his brain instantly started turning, thinking of first steps in assessing his condition. He sped up even more, anxious to get to work as soon as possible to maximize this man's chances of survival. In his haste, he momentarily forgot about potential remaining IEDs.

His next step planted his left foot directly on top of a live explosive.

He heard Murray frantically shout his name before his brain buzzed with nothing more than high-pitched ringing. Somehow, he remained conscious enough to register a sharp pain in his left shoulder. Though the air around him was clouded with dust particles and sand, he made out Murray's face hovering somewhere above his head. He thought the man's lips were moving, but he couldn't make out a word he said.

Stars popped into his visual field and danced around rapidly. He could feel himself fading, but he knew that remaining conscious as long as possible was vitally important. Vitally important for what? He tried to remember why he must stay awake, but the reasoning eluded him. His eyes fluttered shut and he wrenched them back open. He focused his gaze on Murray, still muttering, but the stars grew in number and obscured his vision. The next time his eyelids fell closed, he failed to raise them again.

~0~

His eyelids fluttered open once again some indeterminate amount of time later in his own workplace. He'd recognize a field hospital anywhere after spending so much time inside of them. However, he was accustomed to looking down at patients and not up at the ceiling. He moved to sit up and immediately regretted it. A firm hand on his right shoulder encouraged him not to try again.

"John," Murray's calming voice sounded quieter than usual, possibly due to the faint ringing still echoing in John's ears.

"What happened?" he asked. He'd felt something pierce his shoulder, but beyond that, nothing.

"You charged after that wounded soldier like a bull after a red flag and set off an IED in the process."

"What's the damage?"

"Well, a pretty large piece of shrapnel landed right there," he gestured to John's heavily bandaged left shoulder. "They managed to dig it out, fortunately, but it caused some damage on its way in."

"That it?" John figured he couldn't possibly have escaped with his life and a mere shoulder injury. He remembered the incredibly close proximity of the explosion.

"Not exactly."

"What else?"

"Your left leg…" Murray began. It appeared he didn't know how to continue. John knew exactly what that meant.

"Gone?" he deduced.

"Yeah."

Well, shit. Upon joining the military, he understood this as a possibility. Every soldier knew he might end up invalided out of action, yet none actually expected it would be them. John, as the man in charge of saving others who were wounded, certainly never predicted it would be him who needed saving. Yet here he was.

"Remember earlier when I mentioned you deserve a medal? In America, they would've given you one just for this," Murray mentioned.

"The soldier I tried to save…did he make it?" John asked desperately. He needed to know that something positive had come out of this situation.

Murray shook his head solemnly. "He had all but bled out already. We had to triage, and decided we had a better shot at saving you."

John clenched his teeth in rage and frustration. If he'd just been more careful, maybe he could've saved the man and not landed himself in hospital after nearly blowing himself to smithereens.

"They're sending you home on the nineteenth," Murray announced. "They want to give you another day to rebuild some strength."

"But I thought today was only the fifteenth?"

"You've been unconscious nearly two days."

"Two days?"

"John, that explosion literally ripped your leg off at the shin. Of course you're going to be out of it for a while."

"I know, but two days seems like a really long time." John would regret that statement in the coming months. Two days would soon seem immensely short compared to the reality of his long recovery. A few minutes of silence later and John realized Murray wouldn't be following him home. John would be invalided, forbidden from ever returning to service. The idea didn't entice him in the least. The military was all he knew, how would he ever learn to be somebody other than Captain John Watson?

~0~

The journey back to London was unremarkable. But one thing he saw upon arriving at the hospital where he'd finish his inpatient rehabilitation stuck in his memory. A nurse wheeled him down yet another nameless hallway, and he glanced down another corridor as he passed. A figure stood in this corridor, about six feet tall. The short-haired man stood with the aid of crutches…because one of his legs ended in a crude stump. John saw his own future in the stature of this stranger.

Just as soon as he'd been wheeled into view of this man, he was again wheeled out. Throughout the rest of his stay, his thoughts would often wander to the one-legged man. He wondered if he'd seen John's own injury and felt the same kind of kinship.

He hated every second he spent in hospital. He wanted to be on the other side of the bed, taking care of wounded men. They say doctors make the worst patients, and John did not deviate from this stereotype. He argued with his nurses and therapists at almost every opportunity. Not out of malice, but out of frustration. He didn't want to relearn how to do everything that had once come easy. And he certainly didn't want to be stared at like some circus freak everywhere he went, but that was exactly what he experienced after being discharged.

He quickly decided he'd rather remain indoors than endure people looking at him like he didn't belong in public. When he was finally approved for a prosthetic, he could barely contain his elation at regaining the ability to appear normal. Sure, he couldn't walk normally, but a limp drew fewer looks than a stump. He worked at his physical therapy to improve that gait. He worked more often than he was supposed to, to be honest, simply because he wanted a normal life back that badly. Unfortunately, his body refused to keep up with the recovery his mind expected.

His ruined left leg ached constantly, badly enough that he couldn't quite bear full weight. He underwent a battery of tests to discover the problem, but no doctor could find a physical cause. They concluded psychosomatic symptoms, caused by the traumatic nature of his injury. He never walked well enough to abandon his cane. He'd been making rather steady progress ever since his initial injury, but once he graduated from forearm crutches to the simple point cane, it all halted completely. No matter how much effort he threw into therapy, he stopped improving.

Eventually, he stopped going to physical therapy.

Eventually, he stopped going to talk therapy with Ella, who'd been recommended to him by several people to help him work through some of the mental trauma.

Eventually, he stopped wanting to go anywhere at all.

One day, he got sick of the stale air of his stupid little flat, so he went for a walk. Along the way, he pondered over the circumstances that had brought him to this point. All he'd ever wanted to do was help people. How could he do that when he could barely take care of himself? Everything he'd ever wanted out of his life was now woefully unattainable.

His thoughts drifted to the gun sitting in his drawer at home. How easy would it be to just end it? Blow his brains out and never have to worry about getting through another day in this wrecked body. He made up his mind and started making for home when a vaguely familiar voice called his name from behind him.

Mike Stamford, his old friend from medical school, told John he'd just spoken to a friend of his looking for a flatmate. John hadn't even mentioned anything about needing a flat, but Mike was insistent John come and meet this friend of his. He tried to keep an open mind, consider that maybe new living conditions could help pull him out of this funk. As soon as he met Sherlock, that open mind was blown open by his strange allure. The man told him his own life story like he'd read it in a textbook, and John was immediately transfixed.

And the rest was history.

~0~

John wasn't entirely sure why he decided to hide his infirmity from his new flatmate. He hadn't walked into that mortuary thinking, "Under no circumstances can I let this mysterious man know that one of my feet is not flesh and bone." But as soon as Mike introduced them, John saw an opportunity to escape the living hell his life had become. If he could make a new friend from scratch, one that knew nothing about his previous life, then maybe he could find a new purpose. If he let this friend know what he used to be, John would forever be bogged down by his partially-fulfilled dreams.

So he lied and lied and lied some more to preserve this fragile state of ignorance. He offered up the fact of his psychosomatic limp to distract from the physical aspect of it. He never expected that it would cure itself, that he'd one day stand up and walk out after Sherlock hunting a suspect and forget all about the agony that supposedly lingered in his leg. But that's exactly what had happened.

He sustained the charade for a long time, never once engaging Sherlock's suspicions. The detective didn't pay all that close attention to the doctor himself, preferring to focus his energy on casework and all his insane experiments. John was just glad he didn't chase after suspects himself, as he never relearned how to run. Running would require using a blade instead of a foot, a far more conspicuous prosthetic option, and not one he currently considered. The ability to run was not worth broadcasting, "I'm an amputee," to everyone who hazarded him a glance.

Sherlock, despite his powers of observation and deduction, never caught on. Apparently, he possessed secrets of his own. When John read that Kitty Riley article about the mysterious device spotted atop Sherlock's outer ear, he knew nobody had given him a Bluetooth to feed him information. Sherlock would never subject himself to that. He knew it was a hearing aid even before Sherlock took it off to show him. It certainly explained why the detective could so effectively tune him out to focus on whatever project or case was at hand.

He pitied the man for thinking he needed to hide them to ensure John didn't treat him like an invalid. At the time, he wondered just what Sherlock would think of his hearing aids if John revealed he relied on a prosthetic leg. One certainly seemed like a much bigger deal than the other.

And then this stupid serial robbery case popped up. Sherlock refused to stop searching for clues even to catch a few hours of sleep or eat a decent meal. John himself had to remove himself from the investigation at least once a day to go home and take his prosthetic off to clean and rest the residual limb underneath. He obviously had no clue that Sherlock ought to be doing the same.

Throughout the case, he noticed the detective occasionally massaged the back of his right thigh, but put it down to the muscles being tired from Sherlock remaining on his feet so long. When they hiked out to that field, John never expected he'd be returning in an ambulance. Sherlock's collapse came on so suddenly; one minute he'd appeared completely fine, and the next he began panting and grabbing at his chest. As a doctor, John easily recognized these as signs of something definitively bad.

He dialed the emergency number as quickly as his fingers possibly could and hurried to Sherlock's side. By the time John got to him, the detective had already passed out, his lips a faint shade of blue. He still breathed, much to John's relief, so the doctor attempted to diagnose a cause. Remembering the periodic attention Sherlock had given to kneading his right thigh muscle, John started there. He found the limb warm to the touch and swollen. He let his hand travels downwards towards Sherlock's ankle, when he felt a distinct change in the texture of the limb beneath his hand.

Immediately, he rolled up the bottom of Sherlock's trouser leg and found, not a human ankle, but a prosthetic not unlike his own. "Oh God," he muttered under his breath. Sherlock had been running around for days, it was no wonder this had started to pain him. Before John could dwell on this revelation much longer, paramedics arrived and took over the situation. John followed them aimlessly, though he did take the liberty of removing Sherlock's leg for them. Not all medical personnel knew how to release the airlock mechanism, and he wanted to save them the trouble of worrying about it.

He rapidly explained the situation, that Sherlock likely had been wearing his leg for at least three days straight and had been visibly short of breath before passing out. On the ride to the hospital, the paramedics administered treatment, but John's brain was too far gone to register what they were actually doing. How the hell had he not realized after all this time that Sherlock, too, was an amputee?

John decided that exchanging stories would be their first priority after Sherlock was stabilized. When John eventually found himself sitting beside a still unconscious detective, he decided he'd mess with his head a little bit. He removed his own leg and set it against the wall right next to Sherlock's. A right foot and a left foot: they made the perfect pair. How odd that two amputees would encounter each other in the great big city of London, one missing the left and the other missing the right, and become not only flatmates but best friends. They were sole mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do me a favor and go back to read the prologue of this story. Who do you think it's about?


	26. A Kick in the Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After that detour into John's past, now back to regularly scheduled programming. Enjoy!

"I would say that you owe me one hell of an explanation, but that would be rather hypocritical," John said. Sherlock lowered his eyes to John's feet, but he found only one where there should have been two. He then scanned the room for wherever they'd put his prosthetic, and found it leaning against the wall next to another one bearing a left shoe… John's leg.

Sherlock laughed.

Not a mere chuckle, but a deep, resonating guffaw that could probably be heard throughout the building. It continued until Sherlock's breath caught and he started coughing. The oxygen saturation monitor started to whine out a warning, but then the fit finally ceased and Sherlock could inhale normally again. His eyes shone with tears from the force of his laughter. All this time he'd hidden his disability from John, completely unaware of the fact that he wasn't alone in this endeavor.

"You find this funny?" John asked incredulously. "I don't find this funny at all."

"Ironic," Sherlock corrected. "I find this incredibly ironic."

"Sherlock, this is the definition of irony. What the hell were we both thinking this whole time?"

"How was I supposed to know about you? You hid it from me!"

"You hid it from me!"

"We both hid it from each other. We're guilty of the exact same crime," Sherlock explained. "And we're both idiots for not seeing it."

"In my defense, you're rather good at hiding things," John said.

"I suppose you must be too if I didn't catch on."

"You're supposed to be the most observant man in the world. At least, that's the picture I paint of you on the blog. What would the fan base say if they found out you'd failed to notice that your flatmate was an amputee after years of living with him?"

"They'd realize my flatmate is just as clever as I am. And evidently just as insecure," Sherlock stated.

"Insecure? How do you know insecurity has anything to do with it?"

"I know my reasons for not revealing this, so I can make a pretty decent guess at yours. I'm assuming they're not all that different?

"That's a fair assumption," John agreed.

"I have another inference I'd like to make."

"Go ahead."

"Mycroft already faxed you all of my medical records."

"How could you possibly know that?" John asked disbelievingly.

"You haven't asked what happened."

"Maybe I just have different priorities."

"Nope. I've been like this for a while now, and everyone who finds out asks the same question before anything else. You're no different. If anything, you'd be even quicker to inquire about the circumstances of my amputation because of both your medical background and your similar situation."

"Well deduced," John relented. "Oddly, he sent them without my request. Not even an hour after you were admitted the documents were in my hands. I don't know how he knew that I'd want exactly this. It's like he read my mind."

"Mycroft has the annoying tendency to do that. So, did you read over them?" Frankly, Sherlock dreaded John's reaction to his complete medical history. Many sections of it he wished he could redact. Some were horrid enough to drive even a medical professional like John to nausea.

"I glanced over the highlights."

"Highlights? As someone who lived through that, I can avow that there were only lowlights and moments that weren't quite so despairingly low."

"I believe you. When I said 'highlights' I meant the more important milestones."

"Milestone implies growth in a positive direction."

"Which did happen eventually," John reminded him. "You got well enough to be able to complete hide any indication you were ever sick—and from a doctor of all people." He had a point; Sherlock had to give himself a bit more credit. "But I must admit that your tale makes mine seem insignificant."

"I doubt that." Sherlock already knew the circumstances of John's injuries had been traumatic, hence the psychosomatic symptoms from when they first met.

"My ordeal was admittedly shorter."

"I'll give you that," Sherlock resigned. John's amputation hadn't been preceded by quite the same treatment Sherlock's had.

"Who else knows?" John then asked, thankfully changing the subject from a comparison of their respective suffering. Sherlock didn't want this to become a contest over who deserved more pity.

"Mycroft, of course," Sherlock began with someone obvious, knowing that John might not approve of the next person on his list. "And Molly. Molly knows."

"Molly? Molly Hooper?"

"That's the one." Sherlock braced himself for accusations of betrayal.

"You kept this from me, your flatmate and best friend, but not from Molly bloody Hooper? Why does she have more right to know than I do?"

"It's not like that," he explained. "She found out by accident. The bottom of my trousers caught on fire in the lab one time, before I even met you, and she put it out. Believe me, I had every intention of keeping it from her too. I was angry with myself for letting her discover that secret. Then when I met you I had another chance to make an acquaintance of someone who didn't know about that part of my past."

"What about Victor?"

Yikes. Sherlock gulped in anticipation of this secondary reveal, then muttered, "He's known all along."

"All along?"

"We didn't meet at university. We met in the oncology ward."

John didn't reply verbally, which Sherlock actually found worse. Suddenly he felt the weight of the countless lies he'd told his flatmate over the years. He'd tried to constrain himself to lying only by omission, but of course circumstances had forced him to fib outright. Almost every word of conversation from that dinner with Victor had been a blatant lie.

"That night, he called you Singlefoot," John remarked dryly. "And you said it was an inside joke."

"Well, it was. At the time. He wanted me to tell you everything, Victor did. So did Mycroft, but I wouldn't listen to either of them. Did you ever have anyone insist you stop keeping it a secret?"

"No," John answered frankly. "Everyone who knows about me is still in the army."

"I'm sorry." Over time, Sherlock had picked up that phrase from John. He knew when to say it to placate someone instead of bulldozing right into an inquiry about whatever details he needed for a particular case. But in this instance, he didn't say "I'm sorry" because he figured this situation constituted it. He genuinely pitied John.

"Nothing for you to be sorry for." John stared down at the ground to avoid Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock thought there was rather a lot to be sorry for, namely the endless lying and misleading.

"I guess now you know I wasn't born with hearing loss," he mentioned. The ototoxicity must've been mentioned in his records somewhere, although he didn't know if John had glossed over that part.

"I never knew chemo could do that," he admitted. "We didn't do oncology in all that much depth in medical school."

"There are a lot of things I didn't know chemo could do, until it did them to me." A little bit of bitterness crept into his tone while delivering that statement. Cancer had frankly been one of the most educational experiences of his life, thought he was loath to admit it.

"Did you know what misuse of prosthetics can do, Sherlock? Have you 'deduced' why you're here yet?"

No. Sherlock hadn't had much time to focus on what happened to land him here. He'd been somewhat preoccupied by the revelations with John. "What happened?" he finally asked.

"You have a massive blood clot in your right leg, probably from wearing the prosthetic for nearly four days straight! They did tell you not to do that, right?"

"Yes, they told me that," Sherlock sighed. "I just didn't have time."

"Don't give me that. You make time, do you hear me? Now that I know all about this, I will not let you endanger yourself for a stupid case."

"I was hardly in danger—"

"Sherlock, you threw a pulmonary embolism. You could have died."

"But I didn't."

"That's not important."

"I think the fact that I remain alive is rather important," Sherlock retorted snidely.

"Shut up. Now is not the time to be a smartarse. I can understand why you kept this hidden, even from me, but I cannot fathom why you would fail to take care of yourself. You've evidently spent a lot of time and effort evading death, so why dance with it now?"

"That's exactly it, John. I've spent far too much effort thwarting death. I'd like to not have to worry about it for a change. So sometimes, when the work is enticing enough, I stop worrying about it."

"But it doesn't just go away because your brain is focused on other things."

"You think I don't know that? Things like this never go away, not even for a nanosecond. So it's up to me how much space I let it rent in my head." Sherlock's thoughts drifted to the secluded door of his mind palace, the one with the yellow ribbon on the door—yellow for osteosarcoma. He'd attempted to relegate this aspect of his life to as small and isolated a space as possible, and he'd partially succeeded. He wished the room were smaller, but for some odd reason his ability to simply delete memories didn't transcend to these. He was stuck with all of them, and the best he could do was hide them away and hope he never needed to uncover them.

John sighed, half in exasperation and half in understanding. "I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated. He certainly hadn't wanted his actions to upset John. He'd just wanted to solve a case as quickly as possible while maintaining the illusion that he was healthy and whole. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so. In retrospect, he should've taken at least one break. Maybe then he wouldn't have ended up in hospital. He detested being a patient, having to listen to what other people tell you to do.

"Did they fix it yet? The clot?" Sherlock inquired.

John shook his head forlornly. "It's huge. They said it extends from below your knee all the way up to your hip. Blood thinners alone won't fix it."

"Then what will?"

"Surgery."

"No."

"What?"

"I said no."

"Why would you say no?"

"Because I don't want to do it."

"You don't exactly have much of a choice."

"Of course I have a choice," Sherlock insisted, his breathing growing uneven from nervousness. The idea of going under the knife yet again on this same stupid leg terrified him more than it had any right to. He didn't want to lose another day to unconsciousness, several days to post-anesthesia wooziness, and several weeks to recovery. And of course, what if something went wrong? He might lose some of the mobility he'd toiled so diligently to regain, or worse, never be able to walk again. He didn't want to subject himself yet again to the uncertainties of an operating room. More than anything, he wanted to put his leg back on and walk out of here, never to return. But John didn't look like he would let that happen.

"Why would you choose not to?" John asked. "If this doesn't get fixed, another clot could break off and go to your lungs, or maybe even your brain."

"I know. Neither option is particularly enticing, John. Believe me, I've been in this type of situation more times than I'd like to consider. I've already had five surgeries on this damn leg, and look where that landed me. Who's to say a sixth won't cause more problems than it fixes?"

"Of course there are risks, there are always risks. But leaving this clot alone poses far more dangers than fixing it."

Logically, Sherlock understood that. He knew doctors didn't propose surgery unless it was one of the only viable options. But another part of his brain, one that didn't bother to consider logic at all, worried about all the potential complications. Nothing John said could quell his rapidly building anxiety. There was only one person who had ever been able to talk Sherlock out of a spiraling, pre-operative panic.

"I need Victor," he stated firmly.

"What?"

"Get Victor here," Sherlock commanded, turning to look John sternly in the eye. "Grab my phone, and tell Victor he needs to get here as soon as his shitty lungs will allow."

"Okay." John stood up and hopped a few steps over to where Sherlock's phone lay and sat back down. Sherlock remembered when he'd been forced to do the same thing; hobble around on his one leg. If things continued this way, it seemed inevitable he'd be back to hopping before long. He listened intently to the side of the conversation he could hear:

"Hello. This is John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate," he introduced.

"I'm afraid I have bad news. Sherlock's in hospital. There's a blood clot in his bad leg and it caused a pulmonary embolism."

"He asked me to call you and ask if you could get here as soon as possible."

"Oh, great. He'll be really glad to see you, Victor. Thank you so much. See you soon." John hung up the phone and Sherlock looked at him expectantly, still trying not to give in to the panic.

"He'll be here in an hour," John announced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This incident is loosely based on Paralympic snowboarder Amy Purdy. However, her issue was further complicated by several different factors that aren't necessary to go into. I say this just to assert that prosthetics causing blood clots is a legitimate thing that can happen. If you want to read more about that, just Google "Amy Purdy" and it's one of the first news articles to pop up. Sorry, I would just post a link but my computer's being finicky and it won't let me.


	27. Finding Your Footing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV in this story changes up a bit-until now it's been almost exclusively Sherlock-but I think at this point it's necessary for some other characters to add their voices to the narration.

Victor, true to his word, arrived exactly fifty eight minutes and thirty seven seconds after he told John he'd arrive in an hour. Sherlock had been counting. The rhythm of the passing seconds was the only thing keeping him from descending into an anxiety attack. In the meantime, a doctor had been in to see them and explain in more detail everything that John had already told Sherlock. He half-listened, but it honestly didn't matter how much he understood because he'd be asleep the whole time. He caught the word 'thrombectomy' a few times, but it sounded so menacing he tried to forget about it entirely. Everything that actually pertained to things he himself needed to do they'd tell him when he eventually woke up. Plus, if he actually paid attention to the explanation of just how messed up his leg had become, it would only make him more nervous about the upcoming procedure.

Sherlock heaved a massive sigh of relief when the familiar figure burst through his hospital room door without knocking. "Hey Singlefoot," Victor greeted, stepping up to the foot of the bed. Sherlock sat up and tried to convey all his thoughts with a single look. Victor nodded understandingly and moved to take the empty seat next to John. But on his way, he caught a glimpse of what the doctor had been disguising last time they'd met.

"Wait a minute—what the hell?" he stared at John's stump in utter shock, and then looked to Sherlock for an explanation.

"Turns out I'm not the only singlefoot on Baker Street," Sherlock remarked with a shrug.

"How did this happen? When did this happen?"

"IED in Afghanistan," John explained. "Pretty much the same time Sherlock lost his."

"Oh my god, you're the mirror twin!"

"Pardon?" John was understandably confused, but Sherlock recalled exactly what Victor was talking about. He'd told Sherlock that mere days after his discharge from the hospital, another patient arrived, one missing his left leg.

"You're that guy that came into the hospital just as Sherlock left. You're missing the left leg, him the right. You're mirror twins."

"I prefer the term sole mates," Sherlock added. A play on words was always superior.

"Wait a minute, that was you?!" John stared at Sherlock incredulously. He scanned his face as if searching for something below its surface. "When I was transferred from the hospital in Afghanistan, I came here and I saw a man with one leg in a corridor as I passed."

"I must admit I match that description."

"That's insane," Victor said. "And then you guys met again months later and became friends, without even knowing you'd already seen each other somewhere."

"That doesn't even seem real. It's like something that would happen in a story," John commented. This revelation helped Sherlock forget his anxieties to a degree, but they never disappeared completely. Remembering that day only emphasized the fact that he'd once again leave this hospital as a man with only one functional leg. He started to feel dizzy with nerves again, and of course Victor picked up on this. He scooted his chair a bit closer and rested a hand on Sherlock's shin.

"Hey, it'll be all right," he assured. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a closed fist, offering it to Sherlock. "I brought you something."

"What is it?"

"Hold out your hand and I'll give it to you." Sherlock obeyed, and Victor promptly dropped something cold and metallic into his hand. With one glance he immediately identified it as a nail clipper. A smile crept across his face. "You're still an odd-toed undulation, but with only five toes to take care of they'd better look mighty fine."

"Ungulate," Sherlock corrected, but his heart wasn't in it to be stern with him. Victor had just reminded him of all those little moments leading up to his amputation: the pondering over scientific classification, the nail trimming, and the eventual navy blue polish. He smiled, remembering fondly all the stupid conversations they'd had during his inpatient rehabilitation.

"Yes, remind me again what that means?"

"Hoofed mammal. Artiodactyla and perissodactyla, even-toed and odd-toed. But you know what's not an ungulate?"

"What?" Victor played into his obvious joke setup.

"A cat. Whether or not it's been through a woodchipper doesn't matter." Victor laughed out loud at that one, and Sherlock soon joined him. John stared at both of them in complete confusion. As much as Sherlock loved him as a best friend and a flatmate, they'd never be able to create inside jokes like Sherlock shared with Victor. Too many mutual horrors to surpass.

"Are you two okay?" John asked concernedly after their laughter had lasted long enough to make them both breathless. Sherlock nodded, a few tears sneaking their way from his eyes with the sheer force of his laughing. Already, he felt immensely better than he had before, all thoughts of possibly disastrous outcomes of his surgery all but banished from his mind.

In fact, his good mood persisted up until a nurse entered with inquiries about premedication to help ease his mind in the immediate beforehand. Somewhere in his chart, Mycroft had ensured there was a note about this sort of thing. Though Sherlock would never admit it, he was thankful his brother had taken it upon himself to ensure the medical personnel were made aware of his tendency to freak out over certain things. Of course, the disastrous port installation was on his record, but he still reminded her, "Absolutely no Midazolam."

Whatever they did give him worked wonders, and soon he wasn't thinking about anything except merely existing. Not long after that, he lost consciousness entirely and sank into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

~0~

"Does he always get like that?" John asked Victor once Sherlock had been taken away from them.

"Just for the big ones," the other man replied.

"With people like you, I can't even tell what constitutes a 'big one,'" John said with half a laugh. Victor did not share his amusement.

"What do you mean 'people like us?'"

John feared he'd struck a nerve. Honestly, he didn't know exactly what he meant by it, but most likely it was something along the lines of, "Cancer patients." Victor frowned, clearly disapproving of this answer.

"We're not another species."

John thought to himself, "Actually, you kind of are. The whole reason cancer exists is because of mutation. Mutation is what creates new species." But of course he didn't say this out loud. He simply apologized and credited his own ignorance.

"Sherlock hates to be identified as anything relating to cancer," Victor stated.

"Understandable." John knew what it was like to be defined by a condition you hadn't asked for. Wounded veteran though he was, he hated for that to be the first thing people saw. That was why he'd hidden his injury for so long. "Do you, too?" John asked.

"Do I what?"

"Hate to be identified with cancer?"

"No. It's a part of me, no matter what I do. I'd waste so much energy fighting to escape that identity, so I don't bother. It's better to embrace it. Sherlock obviously doesn't see it the same way, but I've given up trying to force him into it. He wants to stay as far out of the cancer community as possible."

John remembered that one day, and that very strange package. Sherlock had acted all secretive about the contents of the card, and had answered John's inquiries about the T-shirt in an unusual, stunted manner. In retrospect, John should have seen that he was lying. "Did you send the shirt?" he questioned.

"Which one?"

"It's just cancer."

"No, but I gave his address to the girl who did. I introduced him to Ophelia when he was still in hospital after his amputation. I thought he could relate to her, because they'd both lost sections of a leg. He seemed to like her. He was less keen on joining her fight to increase cancer research funding, though. Just out of curiosity, what did he do with the shirt?"

"Honestly, I don't know. He took it to his room and I haven't seen it since."

"I knew he wouldn't wear it. Even though he promised Ophelia he would if she sent one. I hope she never finds out."

"I doubt she will. Where exactly is she now? She's cured, right?"

"Whoa, man. Watch your language. We don't throw around the word 'cured' very often." John blanched. He had so much to learn before he could have a reasonable conversation about cancer with people who'd actually been touched by it.

"I'm sorry," John said sincerely. "Admittedly, I don't know much about all of this. I understand the biology, not so much the culture."

"Yes, Ophelia is in remission," Victor explained. "But none of us are ever really cured. Technically, the benchmark is five years NED, but the possibility of relapse never disappears entirely, only becomes miniscule enough to be negligible. Besides, chemotherapy does all sorts of crap to a person's body, especially a child's. The fight is never over."

John understood most of what Victor had said, just not quite all of it. "NED?" he repeated, unsure of what the acronym meant.

"No evidence of disease," Victor clarified. "Basically a magic word for us cancer patients." John nodded in comprehension. God, there was even an entire vernacular of which he was entirely unaware. He sighed.

"I can't believe there's this whole defining era of Sherlock's life that I just wasn't there for. I thought we were about as close as two people could be, and then he collapsed in a field while we were working and I learned he'd lost an entire fucking leg to cancer." How could John even pretend he'd been Sherlock's friend when he hadn't known about any of this?

"That's the thing, John. He didn't want it to be a defining era of his life. So he tried to wipe any trace of it from his current life, which you are a part of. You can't blame yourself for failing to see through a veil that he put up intentionally to keep you out."

"I know. I'm not mad at myself for not realizing sooner. I'm just terrified of how this knowledge will change our relationship. I don't know if I can look at him the same way now that I know all of this."

"And how do you think he feels about you? To him, you were a chance at a normal life away from cancer and amputation. Now he knows that you're practically just like him. Think he'll ever look at you the same?"

"No," John replied honestly.

"Exactly. And it's up to you two not to let this ruin your relationship. Actually, it should improve it. Do you think Sherlock and I became friends because of how compatible our personalities are? Hell, no. It was because we both had cancer. We found in each other someone who actually understood what was going on and didn't just pretend to be sympathetic. You are in a perfect position to be that person for Sherlock."

"But there's so much more to his history than just being an amputee."

"Yes, that is true. But no two people share the exact same life experiences. One friend will always have lived through something that the other can only imagine. You just have to work around that. Don't pretend you know what he's going through, all you have to do is genuinely care. And I haven't known you all that long, but I can tell you genuinely care about Sherlock."

"Thank you," John said earnestly. This conversation with Victor had frankly been the most enlightening of his entire life. All his worries had been assuaged, and any confidence he'd had in his ability to maintain a friendship with Sherlock had been magnified sevenfold. Sherlock may have considered Victor immature and goofy, but evidently he possessed a deeply philosophical side apt for helping people like John.

~0~

He remembered this process all too well. First, register the scents, then the sounds, then slowly open your eyes to the bright lights above so as not to overwhelm the retinas. He heard light snoring from somewhere on his left, snoring he recognized as Victor's. The ceiling above was not familiar, filled with different patterns than his old room in oncology. Not cancer, then. He was here for something else, but what was it? For as long as he could remember, he'd only really gone to the hospital for cancer related things.

It came rushing back to him like a river that had suddenly been undammed: pain, blood clot, pulmonary embolism, thrombectomy. Oh god, it was over. At least he was still alive. He inclined his head towards the sound of snoring and saw Victor sleeping, and next to him a very awake John. The doctor smiled gently at him, and he half-heartedly reciprocated. He was too tired to do much more than that.

"You're fine," John placated, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock recognized the phrasing Mycroft always used to tell him his scans still showed no signs of cancer returning, and wondered how John knew that. Regardless, it was very reassuring. "It went great." Sherlock mumbled something incoherent even to him, and closed his heavy eyelids again.

~0~

Mycroft received the alert that his little brother had been admitted to hospital within minutes of the event actually occurring; he had protocols and people in place to ensure this. He sighed, recognizing almost immediately that Sherlock had dug himself into a rather deep pit. The headstrong idiot had failed to take care of himself in favor of relentlessly working on a case.

He decided not to go in person straight away, but to remain here and await more information before deciding. Once he learned of the blood clot and necessary surgery, he resigned himself to what would inevitably be a long and boring recovery for his brother. Mycroft stood up from his desk and walked towards what had once been Sherlock's bedroom. When he moved out, Mycroft put all of his things in that room and closed the door, both literally and figuratively on all of the cancer treatment and amputation paraphernalia. This would be the first time he opened it since then.

At first glance there was nothing out of the ordinary; all the more obvious equipment was in the closet. Mycroft peeked inside and found the wheelchair folded up on one side. On the other side lay his cane, crutches, and even his first ever prosthetic leg. Sherlock had been independent of these things for years now, but he would be temporarily regressing after this incident. Mycroft shuddered to imagine how difficult a time Dr. Watson would have trying to keep his brother inside and resting. He knew from experience that was no easy feat.

Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced around the room more thoroughly. He spotted the hook driven into the wall above the bed and the desire to rip it out nearly overcame him. Just before that hook was installed, Sherlock had been discharged after yet another round of chemotherapy. For whatever reason, the side effects had been particularly awful this time around and Sherlock couldn't even stomach water for three days. Mycroft begged him to relent to going back, but he had refused as adamantly as someone in his condition could refuse anything. Mycroft gave up trying to force him and instead finagled a way to at least get him some hydration from home. Within hours, IV fluids were infusing and some color had returned to Sherlock's pallid skin. That hook would be used several times throughout treatment, but only for fluids. Anything more severe and Mycroft refused to allow his little brother to talk him out of taking him to hospital.

In the dresser drawers, Mycroft found a spare shrinker sock, several pairs of trousers with one shortened leg, and a stack of tee shirts. At first he wondered why Sherlock hadn't taken those with him when he moved, but a closer look at one reminded him that they weren't ordinary shirts. Sherlock had requested—no, practically demanded—Mycroft acquire him some of these after Victor showed him one of his own. They each had a zipper over the chest where Sherlock's port had sat. This allowed nurses to access it without him having to pull his collar down or take his shirt off first, and eliminated the need to threat the IV tubing through the collar or the waist, something which Sherlock insisted irritated him to no end. After weeks of watching him shiver from the cold while being accessed, Mycroft agreed with Sherlock that the inventor of these shirts deserved a Nobel prize.

He also found a massive stack of blankets, another testament to how chronically cold Sherlock had been, and a box of hearing aid batteries that he must've forgotten to take with him. He would need those for the rest of his life no matter what happened with his health.

In another drawer, buried at the back, he found the infamous pill case. At his worst, Sherlock had probably swallowed fifteen to twenty a day. In the hospital, the nurses took care of his medication schedule, but when at home it was up to Mycroft to ensure he took the right drugs at the right time. This case had proved immensely helpful with that daunting task. Mycroft could have delegated the responsibility of laying them out to one of his many staff members, but he just couldn't bring himself to trust something as precious as his brother's health to anyone other than himself.

"Why haven't I gotten rid of all this yet?" he silently asked himself. Almost as soon as the thought registered, he knew the answer, and it wasn't a pleasant one. The possibility still remained that Sherlock could relapse, that they'd start this journey all over again. He didn't like to consider it, but nor could he ignore it without fear of one day being completely blindsided when his little brother's scans didn't come back clean. By holding on to all of this, he refused to accept that Sherlock was well and truly done. He wondered what his little brother would think if he knew all of this remained in his older brother's house. Sherlock would probably accuse him of being sentimental and holding on to memories of a time when he actually relied on him.

Now he had John Watson to rely on. No, Mycroft wasn't jealous. He was elated that Sherlock had found a friend that was willing and able to keep up with his restless pace of living. The army doctor must have found out Sherlock's secret by now, and if he hadn't he'd learn soon when Sherlock was forbidden from wearing the prosthetic while he healed. He only hoped that Dr. Watson would continue to prove a suitable companion for his brother during this trying time.


	28. Shoot Yourself in the Foot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not (no, I definitely did) borrow a tiny phrase in this first section from Proving a Point-well, more accurately, from its source material. Please don't sue me :)
> 
> Also went kinda overboard with the literalness of this chapter title, but we all know Sherlock's a drama queen.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Sherlock awoke again. His brain still felt ridiculously fuzzy, like his synapses had been tangled up in knots, but mildly enough that he could make sense of who and what was around him. Victor had disappeared, and in his place sat Mycroft. John remained.

The unfairness of it all struck Sherlock suddenly, and he wanted nothing more than to stand up and walk out. Knowing he couldn't do that, his next best option seemed to be falling asleep again to never wake up. An eternal nap would be preferable to several weeks of recovery without his leg. He hadn't felt this hopeless since he'd fractured his left foot and delayed walking with his first prosthetic by six weeks.

He weakly opened his eyes and blew out an over-exaggerated breath. "I really don't want to do this," he muttered, his voice unbearably hoarse from intubation.

"Do what?" John inquired from his position beside the bed. Mycroft didn't look up from his laptop, but Sherlock could tell he listened intently.

"Any of it. I don't want to be here right now, and I certainly don't want another tenure in that stupid wheelchair. I'd rather just go back to sleep and not have to wake up," he admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged on it gently to ground himself.

"Sherlock." Mycroft had closed the lid of his computer and now awarded Sherlock his full attention. "What do we say when we start to think like that?"

Sherlock knew exactly what he referred to, but he was not in the mood to play this game. Especially not in front of John. Whenever things got bad and Sherlock expressed a desire to give up and just let the disease have its run of him, his brother made him repeat this phrase over and over until he believed it.

"I don't want to say it," he grumbled. Mycroft gave him a look that invited no contradiction. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as he was asked. "I don't want to die," he corrected. He would admit that his desire for a forever nap was reminiscent of a death wish.

"Again," Mycroft urged.

"I don't want to die."

"Once more, for luck."

"I don't want to die," Sherlock said, voice shaking. In truth, he didn't. He just wanted to skip this part and get to the bit where he could once again walk around on two legs. He ended up repeating the phrase again, without preemption from Mycroft. "I don't want to die," he sighed, defeated. As much as he despised this method of Mycroft's, he had to admit it was effective.

"Very good. Now, can I get you anything?" Mycroft asked politely. Sherlock miserably shook his head no.

"Where's Victor?"

"We're not satisfying enough company for you, is that it?" John replied jokingly.

"I don't think I can do witty today, John," Sherlock grunted. Frankly, he wasn't sure he could do much of anything beyond lay here and dread the coming weeks.

"He went home," John informed him. "He said he'd come by to visit at some point today. He also asked if he should bring nail polish, and I'm not entirely sure if he was joking."

"I very much doubt he was joking, but tell him no thank you. The only toes of mine to ever wear polish are long gone."

"You painted your toenails?" John sounded like he didn't believe a man would ever do such a thing.

"Victor begged me to let him. I figured that since the foot would be gone within a day, I might as well just let him. And no, there is no photographic evidence of this, in case you were wondering."

"I don't need any; I can picture it in my head just fine. You and Victor seem to get along really well. That one time we met for dinner you both seemed a bit tense."

"Well, I spent most of that night trying to keep his mouth shut without letting you know what I was trying to do."

"Apparently we both did quite a bit of that. I'm shocked that you, as observant as you are, didn't catch on."

"I was a bit preoccupied with preventing you from catching on." John chuckled merrily at Sherlock's remark, while Mycroft audibly rolled his eyes. Sherlock shifted his position in the bed to alleviate the growing stiffness in his lower back and was rewarded with a twinge of pain from his right leg. Nothing he hadn't experienced before, but he'd mostly grown used to it no longer paining him on a regular basis.

"What's the verdict?" Sherlock directed this question at Mycroft, who undoubtedly already knew everything the doctors did about his recovery.

"Six weeks," he answered. He didn't need to specify what this meant, that number was all Sherlock particularly cared about in this moment. He wouldn't be allowed to walk for six weeks. Damn. Sherlock drew in a breath to prevent himself from freaking out unnecessarily. He could do nothing to prevent this now. He shouldn't have let that case preoccupy him like that, but at the time he didn't expect something as severe as this to come of it. He made this bed, and now he'd have to lie in it. For six weeks.

~0~

Inevitably, at this point Mrs. Hudson had to be informed of the situation. She'd been visiting her sister during the case that had resulted in Sherlock's incident, but returned to Baker Street the day after the operation. She called both Sherlock and John's cell phones to ask where they were and when they'd be coming back.

"She needs to know," John told Sherlock. "About both of us."

"Alright," Sherlock relented. He wondered if learning this information would dredge up her memory of giving him that knit hat when he'd been undergoing treatment. He brought it with him when he moved from Mycroft's house, but it remained stuffed in the back of a drawer he rarely opened. Sherlock and John discussed how to break this news to her for nearly an hour before deciding on a course of action. John would go to 221B and explain that both he and Sherlock had been disguising their respective infirmities, allowing her time to digest this information and ask questions before bringing her to see Sherlock.

While John did all of that, Sherlock could do nothing but wait.

Evidently, it took their landlady quite a while to compose herself after learning all of this, because John didn't return for four hours. Sherlock wondered how much of that time had been spent actually explaining their histories and how much had been spent comforting a distraught Mrs. Hudson. Regardless, she arrived cheery as ever and clucking like a mother hen.

"Sherlock, you really ought to take better care of yourself," she chided. Coming from her, the advice actually sounded worth heeding.

"I know Mrs. Hudson. I just found myself a little preoccupied with the case at hand," he explained.

"That's no excuse."

"I tried to tell him that, Mrs. H, but he won't listen to me. Maybe over the next six weeks you can talk some sense into him," John said.

"Of course." She sat down in one of the chairs beside the bed, and Sherlock looked at John to silently ask if he'd granted his wish. About an hour after John left, Sherlock texted him the location of the knit hat and asked him to bring it back when he returned. John nodded and pulled the hat out of a bag at his feet. Sherlock took it gratefully, feeling the wool with his fingertips and marveling at the perfect, even stitching.

"Wait a minute…" Mrs. Hudson said. "Where did you get that?" She eyed his hat with a combination of suspicion and confusion.

"You," Sherlock answered.

"Me?"

"Yes. Many years ago, when you still visited the hospital with your late husband. You used to bring knitwear for all the patients."

"I did, didn't I. I almost forgot all about that."

"You didn't recognize me when I became your tenant. I assumed it was because I look rather different now than I did when you gifted me this hat."

"Yes, well, I tried not to focus on the appearance of the patients I visited, as most of them were so dreadfully unwell."

"Understandable."

"Ever since I've known you, you've been so full of energy. I can't believe you, of all people, used to be one of those patients."

"Me neither, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sighed. "Me neither."

~0~

While healing from the thrombectomy, Sherlock took leave from any casework that required him to leave the house. While he'd grown confident enough to be himself around John, a man who shared the exact same disability, he didn't want to crutch or wheel around London like the invalid he used to be before his first prosthetic. As much as he'd dreaded this time, it turned out to be not so bad, certainly not compared to the time he'd stress fractured his good foot. He insisted John hide his prosthetic all the way upstairs in his closet so that Sherlock couldn't even look at it. He didn't trust himself not to attempt and squeeze it back on his now-swollen stump in a fit of frustration.

He solved several cases that had come in John's blog or Sherlock's own inbox, simple ones he normally wouldn't bother with. But without the ability to do any legwork, these simple ones were about all he could manage. Mycroft returned his Perplexus, both the original and the bigger, more complicated one, and Sherlock occupied much of his time attempting to master it. He also learned several new violin compositions and ran multiple experiments, most of which John frowned upon.

The only major downside, once again, was Sherlock's inability to carry things while using crutches. However, John quickly presented a solution, one which he'd used before he'd first been approved for a prosthesis. He offered Sherlock a tool belt, the kind which a handy man would use. The multitude of pockets offered plenty of space for carrying various small objects. Sherlock wished he'd thought of this the last time, it would have saved him an awful lot of trouble.

The six weeks passed agonizingly slowly, but not quite as slowly as Sherlock had initially feared. After a check-up, he was cleared to be fitted for a new prosthetic, one that would apply less pressure to the specific areas of his calf that had caused the clot in the first place. After such a long time off, he was forced to return to physical therapy to regain some strength and balance. Fortunately, the skill of walking came back to him like riding a bike, and he was excited to finally be able to return to the real world without being stared at.

Once he'd been steadily back on both feet for a week or so, he agreed to help Lestrade out on a case. The reality of his and John's legs still remained unknown to everyone at Scotland Yard, as neither he nor John was quite ready to reveal such a secret to all of them. Evidently, in his absence, Anderson hadn't adapted to become any more intelligent. He thought he'd already solved the case at hand all on his own, and did not hide his disapproval of Lestrade calling in Sherlock anyway.

"He hasn't been here in two months! He's out of practice," Anderson insisted.

"And even so, I could still think circles around you," Sherlock retorted. He certainly didn't feel as if his deductive powers were at all rusty from his brief vacation. For every case Lestrade offered to him during that time, he offered the excuse that it wasn't up to his standards. The alternative was explaining to the DI that he literally couldn't walk for six weeks, and Sherlock refused to do that. If he'd grown suspicious of Sherlock's continuing refusal to help, he hadn't let on. Regardless, Sherlock was immensely glad to be back, even if it meant enduring the relentless idiocy of Philip Anderson.

Anderson directed his next statement to Lestrade, "I've looked at all the evidence, and it's clear we've been looking in all the wrong places. We should search the warehouse down the street from where the body was found."

"Please. I'd shoot myself in the foot before I took your advice on how to investigate a murder," Sherlock scoffed.

"Go ahead," Anderson taunted. Sherlock paused and glared at the other man, narrowing his eyes menacingly. He considered his options: ignore the comment entirely, come up with some cleverer retort, or obey his command and scare the shit out of him and everyone else in the room. Sherlock decided on the third option. He turned to John and with one look explained his intentions.

"Maybe I will," he told Anderson, extending his hand to the doctor. Almost immediately, he felt the cold kiss of metal grace his palm as John laid his gun in Sherlock's hand. Lestrade looked from Sherlock, to John, to Anderson, and finally to the gun as if he was watching a melee and was entirely unsure who would win and who would be mercilessly beaten.

Sherlock closed his fingers around the handle, his index finger gracing the trigger ever so gently. He turned off the safety and aimed downwards, right at the middle of his right foot. He kept the weapon poised there, and stared Anderson down. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if challenging him to retract his request.

"Wait—" Anderson stuttered, but the rest of whatever he was about to say was cut off by the loud bang of a gunshot. Sherlock smiled as he watched Anderson's eyes widen comically at the fact Sherlock had actually gone through with it. Then, as he quickly realized the detective hadn't so much as flinched, his gaze fell to Sherlock's right shoe, which now had a clean, bloodless hole right through the top of it.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed, sounding both angry and afraid all at the same time.

"What did you do that for?!" Anderson added.

"I am nothing if not a man of my word."

Sherlock cackled as Anderson tried to puzzle out what had just happened. Soon enough, John joined in.

"You're not bleeding!" Anderson noted.

"Excellent observation."

"But…how? Am I dreaming?"

"You wish," Sherlock huffed. "I'm afraid this is quite real. He sat down dramatically in the nearest chair and peered at his right shoe. "Well, this is ruined," he remarked, unlacing and then removing the shoe.

"Did it go all the way through?" John asked nonchalantly.

"I think so. Yeah, there's a chink in the floor where I was standing. I'll bet the bullet's buried in it." Sherlock then pulled off his sock, noting the two neat holes punched through it. Anderson took one look at the now-exposed fake foot and ankle, and literally stumbled backwards.

"What is that?" he asked, sounding panicky.

"My foot," Sherlock answered. "Although not for much longer, this clearly needs replacing now." A hole drove straight down through the middle of it.

"I always suspected you were an android," Anderson remarked.

"Did you now? You find out I'm missing one leg, and your immediate conclusion is that I'm an android. Clearly you've been reading too much science fiction."

"If not an android, then what are you?"

There were many ways Sherlock could have answered that question. Amputee. Survivor. Regular human, even. He chose none of them.

"I am…done with this conversation." Sherlock put his sock and shoe back on, stood back up, and took a few steps, surprised at how well his leg still worked with a huge hole through the foot, then strode out the door and back onto the sidewalk. John followed closely behind, and Sherlock returned his gun.

Without a word passing between them, both men cracked up, laughing hard enough to cause shortness of breath. "Sherlock, did you see their faces?" John asked.

"Of course. I memorized it, framed it, and put it on the wall of the mind palace."

"I can't believe you ruined a new prosthetic just to mess with Anderson."

"Neither can I, but it was entirely worth it."

"Really? Will it still be worth is when you have to explain to your prosthetist why you already need another one when you just got it replaced?"

"Absolutely."

~0~

Sherlock had completely abandoned working on that case in favor of startling Anderson, but Lestrade didn't let him off the hook that easily. Mere minutes after he'd left, his phone started ringing. The DI rarely called, knowing that Sherlock always preferred text and was more likely to answer. But evidently he wanted to hear this from Sherlock's own mouth.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked. "You owe everyone here an explanation. I know you consider yourself above them, but I at least deserve to know what's going on. I'm not going to force you to step up on a soap box and talk to everyone here, but I want to hear it from you in person. You owe me that much. I'll be at your flat in twenty minutes." Without allowing any time for Sherlock to formulate a response, Lestrade hung up. John, who heard everything because the DI had been practically shouting, looked up at Sherlock questioningly.

"Are you going to do it?"

"I think I have to," Sherlock admitted. As much as he loathed telling this story, letting Lestrade's imagination run wild would only make everything worse. And he did owe it to him.

"What about me?" John asked. He hadn't revealed anything at all about his own condition.

"We wouldn't want to overwhelm him."

"But if I don't fess up now, he'll feel betrayed again when he eventually finds out. I think it's better to do it all at once."

"It's your life, I'll let you decide how much of it you want to reveal." True to his word, the DI arrived at the door of 221B in less than twenty minutes. He took the seat in the living room typically reserved for clients and looked at John and Sherlock expectantly.

"Sit," he intoned gruffly. They both immediately complied, collapsing in their respective seats for fear of further upsetting Lestrade. "Start talking."

He was running this like an interrogation of a suspect. Sherlock was used to being on the other side of inquiries like this, and he decided he much preferred that to being questioned. Although there was no stereotypical bright light in his face, he felt as if there was. Sweat glistened at the nape of his neck and his palms grew clammy. Where to even begin? His explanation for Molly had been overly blunt and simplified, should he provide Lestrade with more detail than that? How much could he reveal without being banished from cases for the sake of his health or something stupid like that? Should he go from the amputation and work backwards or start at his diagnosis?

When he hesitated too long, Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair aggressively. He raised his eyebrows, prompting Sherlock to speak up soon or suffer rage of a caliber he'd never experienced before. "Well…" he began. "As you probably observed, I use a prosthetic."

"As a matter of fact, I figured that much out for myself when you put a bullet through it," the DI growled.

"Right, just confirming that fact of the matter." Oh God, why was this so hard? He'd lived through it, why couldn't he just summarize it to get this over with? He looked to John, panicked, but received only an encouraging nod. "I—it had to be taken off a while ago."

"Because…?"

"It broke," Sherlock finished. Technically not a lie, just not the truth by any stretch of the imagination.

"They had to completely amputate your leg…because it broke? Isn't a plaster cast and a few weeks on crutches the typical solution for that?"

"Well, it's more complicated than that. I broke it after a bunch of the bone had already been replaced with metal, and there was no way it was going to heal properly. Amputation was the only remaining option."

"I'm sorry, but I'm clearly missing a major plot point here. If this doesn't start making sense soon, you're not going to like the consequences."

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It's just hard to talk about." His lips kept moving as if to form an explanation, but John interrupted:

"He had cancer." Sherlock closed his eyes and hung his head in shame. By now he should be able to say those three little words that, despite his every attempt to abandon them, defined a decent chunk of his identity. He waited for the pity, for the 'Oh, that must've been awful' and the 'Goodness, are you alright now?' but it never came.

"Wow," was all Lestrade had to offer. "That's incredible."

"Incredible?" Sherlock didn't know what to think, he'd never heard that term used before in this context.

"Yes. I never would have known if you hadn't gone and shot yourself. You look great."

"Well, it has been several years. I would hope that any physical signs of illness are long gone." Lestrade swallowed nervously and nodded. Sherlock could tell he was uncomfortable, and he hated that his disease was the cause of it. He wanted to return to their normal interpersonal dynamic, but it would be a while before Lestrade adjusted to this bombardment of new information.

"Is that why you refused all those cases for so long? Were you…sick?"

"Not in the way you're thinking. I did not relapse," Sherlock assured him. "Unfortunately, a bit of misuse of the prosthetic on my part led to some complications." He left it at that, earning a glare from John that went unnoticed by the DI.

"Greg, I haven't been completely honest with you either," John began.

"Don't tell me, you're missing the other leg," he remarked sarcastically.

John smirked. "Oh, you don't want me to tell you that? Well that's going to make this a bit difficult." He rolled up his trouser leg enough for Lestrade to see the prosthetic.

"You too? How?"

"IED in Afghanistan. Blew it right off, never saw it again."

"Wow. You two are like mirror images of each other," he remarked. "Did you meet through that somehow? Like a support group?"

"Actually, we didn't know about each other's injuries until about two months ago," John admitted. "We both decided to keep it a secret from everyone, including our flatmate. And then Sherlock's complication arose, exposing him, and I thought it fitting to reveal my secret as well."

"You two are bloody mental, you know that? Hiding something like this for so long. I'm shocked it didn't come out sooner."

"So are we," Sherlock admitted. "But now pretty much everyone knows, so there's no point in hiding it anymore."

"Did you really have to shoot yourself in the foot? Couldn't you have revealed this some other way, possibly a less violent one?"

"Nope. Anderson had it coming. Honestly, I should've shot him in the foot too."

"No, you should not have," John scolded.

Lestrade admitted cheekily, "I probably would have turned a blind eye."

"Unfortunately, that will remain a missed opportunity."


	29. Put Your Best Foot Forward

Now that he'd lived a while without having to keep his amputation a secret, Sherlock wondered how he'd ever had the energy to keep up the charade. Nowadays, he didn't have to get fully dressed in prosthetic, trousers, socks, and shoes on lazy, case-free mornings. If he so pleased, he could stay in his dressing gown and simply hop from his bedroom to the living room and collapse on the sofa or in his chair to think. He didn't return his crutches to Mycroft's house once he was allowed to once again use his prosthetic, instead keeping them around for further use. Evidently, John had simply kept his hidden in his closet upstairs, because he also started using his occasionally.

"You know what I miss?" Sherlock asked one day, lounging around the flat waiting for a worthy case to pop up.

"What?" John entertained.

"Running."

"Why didn't you continue PT long enough to learn to run?"

"It's difficult without a blade."

"And that would've prevented you from continuing to hide it," John figured out.

"Exactly."

"But…?"

"Now I'm less concerned with hiding it."

"Well that's good. Are you trying to say you want to try a blade instead of a foot?"

"I think so," Sherlock admitted. He'd read articles about how it led to a more natural gait and was more comfortable after a decent amount of practice. If he hated it, then he could just continue as he was and abandon hope of ever running properly again.

"Mind if I joint you?" John asked.

"Not at all."

~0~

At first, he was hopelessly unsteady. It felt like standing on tiptoe. Nate, Sherlock's prosthetist, warned him that it would take a few tries to grow accustomed to it, but Sherlock hadn't prepared himself for just how alien the sensation would be. Evidently, neither had John; the look on his face reflected everything Sherlock felt.

"Take a few steps with the parallel bars first," Nate instructed. Sherlock didn't doubt that he'd need the extra support, so he complied. John sat and watched as Sherlock took a few tentative steps, leaning heavily on the bars. He understood the mechanics of a blade: the curve functioned as an almost-ankle joint that sprang back just a bit with each step. The problem was, his hesitation caused him to not put enough weight to depress it in the first place, so his right hip sat a bit higher than his left. After a few passes along the bars, he started to get the hang of it a little bit, but he took a break to give John a turn.

He experienced the same issues Sherlock did, though he appeared to pick up on it faster. By the end of the session, John was significantly more comfortable with a blade than Sherlock was. Nate recommended they come back several times over the next week or two to practice before deciding to get a customized leg or not. "For a lot of people, it will just click in one moment," he explained. "For others, it just takes a lot of adaptation."

Sherlock and John heeded his advice to a tee. They came back multiple times, each visit growing more and more comfortable with the new style of prosthetic. Towards the end of the fourth session, Sherlock experienced 'the click.' All of a sudden, his gait naturalized as if by magic. His limp was even less severe than it had been with his first prosthetic after months of physical therapy. After that revelation, he decided firmly that he'd buy a bladed leg custom fit for his stump, and John did the same. That afternoon, they both made appointments with Sherlock's physical therapist to begin the process of relearning to run, scheduled mere days after their new prosthetics would arrive.

John took a liking to Andrew as quickly as Sherlock had when they'd first met. Andrew understood their motivations and adjusted his conversation accordingly, focusing on their goals and not mindless small talk. The process wasn't easy by any means, but Sherlock found himself enjoying it. When he first relearned to walk after his amputation, he'd endured this process all by himself. Now, he had John to accompany him, which made every aspect of therapy more than bearable. They laughed, made fun of each other, and marveled at each other's progress.

Sherlock's favorite part of the experience was the treadmill bubble. At first glimpse, it seemed daunting, but was actually quite simple. It was literally a giant inflatable cube over a treadmill that enclosed him by the waist and took some of his weight. This way, if he tripped, it would catch him. Sherlock requested John take videos to send to Victor, who he knew would be curious about the process.

"That looks like a torture device from the Spanish Inquisition," Victor texted in reply to the first treadmill bubble picture.

"It's actually quite comfortable," Sherlock replied. "Your jokes are closer to torture devices."

"Haha. I see both you and John seem to prefer using that bladed leg now. Do you know what that means?"

"We're conspicuous as amputees."

"Yes, but not what I'm going for."

"We walk more normally because of its design?"

"No. All I see is your lack of a need for right shoes." True, Sherlock hadn't used any of his right shoes since he started using the blade, nor had John used his left. He deduced what Victor wanted out of this, and smiled to himself. He'd begged for this since the day of Sherlock's amputation, and honestly he deserved it.

"Meet us tomorrow at 2. We'll go shopping."

Victor replied to that text with only a smiley face.

~0~

"But I don't need new shoes," John argued. Sherlock had just informed him of the plans for this afternoon and requested he join him.

"I know. Neither do I, but this is more for the sake of a sociological experiment than an actual need for footwear."

"Remind me again what why we're doing this?"

"We're going shoe shopping to satisfy Victor. He's been begging me for this since day one, and I'm tired of denying him."

"Okay, fine. But you're doing the talking," John acquiesced. Sherlock and he took a cab to the nearest shoe store, and Sherlock told Victor the address. The other man arrived twenty minutes later, a devilish grin plastered on his face.

"I cannot explain how happy I am you finally agreed to take advantage of this opportunity," Victor said.

"It seems a bit cruel to the poor bloke working here," John pointed out.

"Whatever. After everything you two have been through, you deserve to have a little fun."

"Let it be known that this is your idea of fun, Victor, not ours," Sherlock clarified. "You're going to be the only one laughing like a maniac."

"Whatever. Just do it."

Sherlock sighed, exchanged an exasperated glance with John, and set about finding a pair of shoes he'd consider buying. Truly, he didn't need new ones, but now that he was here it didn't seem like that bad an idea. He and John each chose a pair, and Sherlock tried not to chuckle at how small a size John wore. They walked up to the counter—Sherlock saw the cashier's gaze flit not-so-subtly to their feet.

"Did you find everything you're looking for?" he asked politely.

"Actually, I had a question," Sherlock replied. Victor gave him an obnoxious thumbs-up from where he stood a few meters away. "Is it possible to only buy one of these shoes?"

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock knew the man had seen his foot—or lack thereof—so he must be either stupid or stalling to ask such a question. He took a deep breath and continued, "As you may have noticed, I have little use for right shoes. Would it be possible for me to just buy the left?"

The man bit his lip nervously and hesitated to try and come up with answer. "Umm, I'm afraid they come in pairs. You don't have to take both home, if you prefer."

"So I'd pay for both, and only get one. Does that seem fair?"

"I'm sorry, but we don't sell individual shoes." Sherlock could hear Victor's barely restrained laughter in the background, and a grin snuck its way onto his face. What he was doing right now was utterly ridiculous, but also great fun at the same time.

"What if I buy both and return one?" Sherlock knew that was preposterous, but he wanted to watch this guy squirm a little while longer.

"I'm afraid you would not get a refund for returning only one shoe. I am sorry sir, but there's nothing I can do."

"If I had a penny for every time I heard that, I'd be able to buy out this store. There was nothing they could do to save my leg, and now there's nothing you can do to help me save a bit of money by not buying something I would never use. Isn't that amazing? As advanced as we are, humans are often unable to do any more than 'nothing.'"

"Indeed. I can put those back if you're not interested in purchasing them," he began, slowly reaching for the shoes.

"No thank you. I will buy both. I'm sure there's a charity somewhere that'll accept a single shoe donation, one that understands that not everyone has two feet that need covering." This poor man really didn't deserve such passive aggression, but at this point Sherlock couldn't help himself. He heard Victor practically snort with laughter at this last remark. The enhanced ability to give other people a hard time might be the best advantage to being disabled, although he doubted he'd do anything like this in the future. It felt morally wrong, to utilize his condition purposefully to make others uncomfortable. If Victor hadn't essentially demanded it of him, he never would have done this.

Regardless, he couldn't take back everything he'd already said, so he paid for both shoes and apologized. "I know it's not your fault, but sometimes little things like this just get to me," he explained, hoping the man would understand.

"It's alright. I'll speak to the manager about adjusting our inventory to be more inclusive. Have a nice day." Sherlock turned away from the counter and approached Victor, who could still hardly contain himself. John bought his own shoes without comment, and soon joined them.

"That might be the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life," Victor said as they exited.

"You must've had a pretty boring life," Sherlock replied.

"Not in the least. You were there for part of it, remember? Boring is the last word I would use."

"Really? Well, I don't see much entertainment value in an endless cycle of sleeping and vomiting." John was visibly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, Sherlock could tell, but jokes in poor taste were just about the only kind Sherlock and Victor ever told each other.

"Yes, there was that, but there was certainly more. Remember that time when the entire ward got together for a secret poker game?"

"Oh yeah. Someone suggested making it strip poker, but half the players were in nothing more than hospital gowns, so it wouldn't have been much fun anyway. Who ended up winning?" Sherlock asked. "I recall we wrapped it up just before we got caught by Nurse Anne."

"Mort completely decimated us all."

"Oh, right. Mort." Nothing more was said on the topic, but Sherlock's mood darkened at the mere mention of that name.

"I didn't know you knew how to play poker," John remarked. "I would've thought you deleted it."

"It comes in handy when your only company is imbeciles like this guy," he said, indicating Victor.

"Hey, I resent that accusation! If I can beat you at poker, you have to apologize and take it back."

"Deal."

~0~

Victor did not, in fact, beat Sherlock at poker. Actually, John emerged victorious by a landslide. "I had a lot of practice in the army," he claimed. "Sherlock, I'm surprised you're not better than that. I'd have thought you could easily tell if someone's bluffing."

"I can always tell if someone is bluffing, but it doesn't help much when my hand is terrible. I almost never end up with anything better than one pair."

"Maybe it's karma," Victor suggested, earning him a punch in the arm from Sherlock.

"If anyone deserves bad karma, it's you," Sherlock countered.

"Why?"

"Because you coerce people—mainly me—into doing stupid things."

"When have I ever forced you into anything?"

"You made me paint my stupid toenails, you made me visit Ophelia in the pediatric ward, and just now you made me go shoe shopping."

"You invited me shoe shopping."

"Only to get you off my back about it. Seriously, one would think you have a vendetta against shoe salesmen because of how vehemently you fought for me to do something that would make them uncomfortable."

"Maybe I do have a vendetta against shoe salesmen," Victor suggested.

"Then please elaborate, I'm sure this'll be a great story." Sherlock observed John listening to their ridiculous banter with a smirk on his face. He never stopped to consider what his conversations with Victor look like to a third party. They must seem like an old married couple. Victor actually started relaying a story of some childhood trauma related to shoe salesmen, and Sherlock decided, for no particular reason, to piss him off. He reached up and conspicuously turned his hearing aids down to the point where he could barely make out a word Victor was saying.

"Hey, you asked me to elaborate! You can't literally tune me out, that's rude."

"Huh?" Sherlock asked, cupping a hand around his ear to pretend to listen closely.

"Bastard," Victor grumbled under his breath. At least, that's what Sherlock thought he said. Based on what he actually heard and lip-read, it also could've been "faster," "master," or "pastor." Sherlock adjusted his volume back to normal just in time to hear John ask, "Are you sure you two are even friends? All you've done since we got here is argue."

"I swear, it's all in good fun," Victor insisted.

"Yeah. We bond over our mutual hatred of each other," Sherlock added merrily.

"That's the most messed up sentence I've ever heard," John said.

"You've been living with Sherlock all this time, and that's the most messed up thing you've ever heard? Are you serious?"

"Probably not. I'm sure he's said worse, just can't think of an example at the moment."

"As someone who's known him for many years, I can assure you he's said worse. Especially when he's on pain meds."

"Hey, don't bring that up," Sherlock said whiningly. "Anything said while intoxicated, drugged, or otherwise mentally incapacitated does not count."

"Whatever you say, Singlefoot."

~0~

A few hours after Victor left 221B, Sherlock received a text from him asking if he was available for a quick phone call. "Yes, you can call me," Sherlock texted back, wondering what the hell this was all about. He hadn't forgotten anything here when he left, had he?

Within seconds of sending the text, Sherlock's phone rang. He answered immediately and took the phone into his bedroom. "Sherlock?" Victor's voice, although somewhat shaky. And he rarely addressed him as Sherlock anymore, preferring to use almost exclusively his nickname.

"Yes, it's me," Sherlock responded. "Why do you need to talk?"

"I need to tell you something. I considered telling you during our visit today, but I just couldn't bring myself to broach the topic." Whatever this was about, it certainly didn't sound good. Victor always said whatever was on his mind; for him to be unable to say something meant it must be awful for him.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. He heard a deep sigh, followed by a few regimented breaths, and then Victor spoke.

"My cancer's back."


	30. Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

"My cancer's back." Victor's words echoed in Sherlock's head like a reverberating gong. Every cancer patient dreaded those words, for they almost always preceded a repeat of the battle one had already won. Once again, the army of mutant cells amassed and waged war on the body, gaining a crucial head start over whatever weapons at the doctors' disposal.

Sherlock tried to think of something to say, some appropriate reaction to this information, but no words would come. He could only think about how different this battle would be for Victor without Sherlock fighting an identical one alongside him. He couldn't imagine enduring what he did without Victor to commiserate with, but unless Sherlock's next scans revealed something awful, that's exactly what Victor was about to embark upon. Sherlock would not be a fellow soldier in the coming conflict, merely a sidelined supporter. He'd never been in such a position before, and he wasn't sure he knew how to handle it.

"I know that's a lot to take in, Sherlock, but could you say something, anything, just so I know you didn't just drop dead from the shock," Victor said. Sherlock could hear him fighting to keep his tone light, but he could hear the fear underneath the pretend nonchalance.

"I—I'm sorry," he choked out. Sherlock had no idea what he apologized for, whether it was for hesitating so long or for the bad news, but those were the only words he could force his lips to produce. In reality, he wasn't sorry—he was angry. But he pushed that to the side and composed himself enough to ask, "Is there anything I can do?"

"I start chemo on Tuesday. You don't have to come in person, because I know how hard that would be for you, but could you try to make yourself available to Skype? I might need someone to talk to."

"Of course." For Victor, he'd say no to a case ranking a ten on his scale of interest. He also internally sighed with relief when Victor said he shouldn't come in person. He didn't know how he'd react to returning to the oncology ward, but he inferred it wouldn't be pleasant. Never had a single location held so many horrid memories. "Anything else?" he asked Victor.

"Not that I can think of. I'm still trying to digest all this. Sorry for springing this on you over the phone, but I just didn't think I could tell you in person without breaking down and sobbing."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. I'm not sure I would've handled it any better," Sherlock admitted. He took a rattling breath, and head over the phone Victor doing the same. After a long pause, Sherlock stated hopefully: "It's just cancer."

"It's just cancer," Victor repeated. Then he hung up. Sherlock tossed the phone onto his bed and sat down on the edge. God, it was so unfair. Nobody should ever have to endure this, much less suffer through the process twice. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and suddenly flashed back to when he'd done this and come away with fistfuls of his curls. How long would it be before Victor lost his hair once again? Sherlock first met him mere weeks into treatment, when they both still had heads full of hair. Once it started to thin, they shaved each other's heads in Victor's hospital room, the whole time giggling like schoolchildren.

"Sherlock? Who were you talking to?" John's voice, calling him from the living room he'd just vacated. What would he tell him? How could he put this tragedy into words?"

"It was Victor," Sherlock answered. He stood up and trudged back to his chair across from John. "He…um, had some bad news to tell me."

"What kind of news?" John didn't sound as concerned as he ought to, but he could have no idea of the gravity of this information.

"The worst kind," Sherlock said vaguely, almost choking on the words.

"Oh." John could read between the lines of everything he hadn't said. He knew without Sherlock actually having to tell him. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, me too. What else can we be?" Everyone said, "I'm sorry," upon hearing something like that. It was the equivalent of saying, "thank you," when someone held open a door or picked up something dropped, or of saying, "bless you," when someone sneezes. It's a reflex, often with very little actual regret behind it.

"We can be there for him," John suggested. Sherlock slightly shook his head. He wanted so desperately to be a good friend and support Victor throughout this, but just thinking about it made him feel as sick as if he'd just finished a round of chemo. He didn't think he could handle watching his friend suffer so greatly without being able to do anything to fix it.

~0~

Tuesday rolled around far sooner than natural. Sherlock awoke with a hollow feeling in his gut, as if someone had literally carved him out with a large spoon. Since they weren't working on a case, John urged him to eat, but he couldn't manage even a small bite of anything. The mere smell of it made him nauseous. He'd never felt such vicarious anxiety before, and he hated everything about it.

What made it worse: he knew the process intimately. He could picture vividly every step and recall exactly how badly it hurt or how much it worried him. Less than an hour later, Victor Skyped him. He didn't want to see what was going on, but he couldn't abandon Victor in such a time of need, so he picked up on the third ring and sat down at the living room table with his laptop.

"Hey Singlefoot." Victor's voice, slightly hoarse.

"I really need to come up with a nickname for you, I can't keep calling you Victor when you've abandoned use of my real name entirely," Sherlock said.

"I disagree. I thing this imbalance embodies our relationship pretty beautifully."

"Did they give you a brain transplant? I've never heard such big words come out of your mouth.

"No, although I requested one since this—" he pointed to his head, "contains all the memories of the last time I went through this. I'd almost rather start fresh."

"No, I think it'll be better knowing what to expect."

"Really?"

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't. At least, I think I've heard people say that before." He looked to John, his go-to for confirming typical sayings, who nodded in affirmation. "John says that's a thing people say."

"I know people say that. Whether or not it's true; that's the part I don't know."

"I guess you're about to find out," Sherlock said dismally.

"I guess so."

"When did they replace your port? Or did they even take it out after the first round?"

"Yes, they took it out years ago. They put in another a few days before we went shoe shopping."

"So you already knew?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't want to burden you with it. But then you did that stupid grand gesture with the shoes, and I simply couldn't keep it from you any longer."

Sherlock sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, as if to remind himself it was still there. Though he knew that he wasn't sick again, watching Victor against the backdrop of the familiar hospital room made him feel as if he was. "Hold on, I have to put the phone down for a minute. Port access time," Victor announced. Sherlock didn't want to watch that, and thankfully Victor set the phone down with the camera facing the ceiling. Sherlock couldn't see the disturbingly long needle, he could only see a stark white expanse of tiles.

"Did you remember to pack your easy-access shirts?" Sherlock asked, knowing Victor would still be listening.

"Of course." Sherlock heard him hiss quietly, teeth clenched at either the cold kiss of antiseptic or the pain of the needle entering. Sherlock bit his lip in sympathy. The camera angle shifted once again as Victor picked up the phone again. "Remember these babies," he asked, showing off a bundle of IV bags at the top of the pole.

"Unfortunately, yes," Sherlock mumbled, shivering at the mere sight of them. He could just make out a few hauntingly familiar drug names. "You alright?"

"Super," Victor replied, turning the camera back to his face.

"Your sarcasm is duly noted."

"It is my first language, after all."

"I would've thought it's the only language you speak," Sherlock countered.

"That's fair."

Silence reigned for several minutes, with neither man finding a new topic of conversation. It may have been his imagination, but Sherlock thought he could hear the slow drip of fluids in the IV. He could vividly picture the 'medicine' making its way into Victor's bloodstream, impeding the growth of his reoccurred cancer cells, and unfortunately some innocent bystander cells as well. He could remember just how long it took to start feeling ill after the administration began. Maybe after this round Victor would end up hearing impaired just like him.

"Victor, did they happen to mention ototoxicity as a possible side effect this time?" Sherlock asked.

"Huh? Sorry, I couldn't hear you."

"I said: did they happen to mention ototoxicity as a possible side effect," Sherlock repeated. The words were already out of his mouth before he realized he'd been played. Despite himself, Sherlock burst out laughing.

"That might be the first time I've ever made a joke that you legitimately laughed at," Victor commented. "Most of the time I get a pity laugh at best."

"It was deserved," Sherlock admitted, wiping a tear that had escaped from his left eye. "That was far better than any amputee joke you've ever made."

"Are you saying that your hearing is now fair game for making fun of?" Victor asked hopefully.

"I can't promise I won't just tune you out."

"So that's a resounding no, then."

"Yes. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to make fun of things people can't control?"

"Sure she did, but what boy listens to his mother's advice?"

"None of them. And it always gets them in trouble."

"Not always. My mother has a tendency to meddle in things about which she knows nothing."

"Really? Your mum strikes me as the kind of woman who knows everything about everything."

"She thinks she does. In reality, her knowledge base is somewhat more limited."

"When was the last time you even saw your parents? I remember they visited after the big surgery."

"Mycroft and I went home for Christmas last year." Sherlock neglected to mention that John had come with them, and the man in question eyed him suspiciously from behind his newspaper. "And John," he added abruptly.

"Sounds like fun. What are their thoughts on their son rooming with a fellow Singlefoot?" Victor rarely used the word 'amputee,' and Sherlock was somewhat glad. The term sounded so harsh.

"They believe our meeting was orchestrated by God or something like that."

"Do you agree with that?"

"I would say it's merely a coincidence, but Mycroft says the universe is rarely so lazy. I don't know what to believe. John, what do you think?" Sherlock directed the question at the doctor, who put his newspaper down in his lap to answer.

"I'd say it's a fortunate coincidence. We're sole mates."

"Isn't that phrasing a bit romantic?" Victor questioned.

"Not soul as in heart and soul, but sole as in the bottom of the foot. Sole mates."

"That's clever. I like that."

"Really? Glad to know I have approval from one of Sherlock's best friends."

"John, you don't need his approval for anything," Sherlock said insistently. He'd never intended these two worlds of his to collide, and certainly not like this. However, he found himself enjoying the freedom of open discussion of both his past life and present life. Shoving it away and pretending like it never happened had been mentally exhausting, and he felt more at ease now that he no longer had to do it. He thought of the forbidden room of his mind palace, the one behind the door marked with a yellow ribbon. Now, he thought of the ribbon not as a 'keep out' sign, but as a welcome mat.

~0~

Victor continued in and out of the hospital for treatment over the next several weeks. Sherlock visited by himself twice, and brought John along on a third visit. He'd thought returning to the oncology ward would dredge up all sorts of horrible memories—and it did, but those were overshadowed by the positive ones he'd managed to make during his time here. Mindless chatter with Victor that always managed to lighten his spirits, illicit poker games behind closed doors, successful physical therapy sessions that bolstered his independence, endless frustration over the Perplexus, all of these things had introduced happiness to an otherwise dismal experience, and it was those things he focused on whenever he entered the sterile sanctum of the hospital.

"I brought you sour gummy worms," he told Victor on his first visit, tossing over the bag of candy. They had discovered this particular brand together; it had the most intense flavor of any they'd ever tasted. When chemotherapy rendered one's taste buds horribly dulled, extreme sour was one of the only things that tasted like anything at all. Victor's eyes lit up at the sight of them and he eagerly caught the offered bag. "You know, I can't handle eating those anymore," Sherlock noted. "They're too sour now."

"Prove it." Victor ripped open the bag and handed a purple one to Sherlock. The purple ones had always been his favorite, and Sherlock wondered if Victor actually remembered that or if he'd just gotten lucky. Reluctantly, Sherlock popped it into his mouth as Victor ate three in one bite. The sourness burned his tongue and throat, and he couldn't help but pucker his lips to cope with it. Victor laughed at him, and Sherlock would've been upset if it weren't for the circumstances. Laughter really was the best medicine, he knew. A good chuckle could erase pain that sometimes morphine couldn't touch.

"You used to be able to scarf down a handful all at once," Victor said as he ate another, a blue one this time. The red ones were his favorites, Sherlock remembered, but he always saved those for last.

"How times have changed," Sherlock remarked.

"Also, you used to be able to sleep at night without worrying about anyone else's cancer."

Sherlock wanted to tell Victor that he didn't worry, that this relapse didn't prevent him from relaxing, but that would be far from the truth. He couldn't lie to Victor. He worried about statistics all the time; the numbers floated around whenever he closed his eyes. Concern for Victor's condition had replaced any lingering worries he had for his own potential relapse. The milestone for 'cured' was five years NED, but even after that miniscule chances remained.

"Sleep is overrated," Sherlock said.

"Sleep fights cancer," Victor retorted. "I think I read that in a book somewhere. I didn't hear it from an actual doctor. But that doesn't mean it's not true."

"I guess it depends on the credibility of the book."

"Exactly."

"Was it fictional?" Sherlock had never seen Victor read anything non-fiction other than patient consent forms.

"Probably. But all the great works of fiction are based in some form of truth, aren't they?"

"I'm not going to argue with that. It sounds valid enough. Is there anything I can get you?" Sherlock offered. "How much longer are you in here for this round?"

"Just two more days. Mostly they're waiting to see how the new tumors respond before they decide what to do next. I'm hoping surgery is not on the table."

"Do you mean as a treatment option, or do you mean you hope they perform surgery somewhere other than the operating table?"

"As a treatment option, duh. I'm not clever enough for wordplay of that caliber."

"Speaking as a frequent flier, surgery's not so bad. It's just a few hours of nothingness, then a few hours of haziness, then a few days of tiredness."

"You should publish a brochure. With a spiel like that, you could sell surgery better than the surgeons who get paid for performing it."

"I said it's not so bad, I didn't say it was great and should be done more frequently. I wouldn't be caught dead profiting from the advertisement of such barbaric practices."

"If it weren't for such barbaric practices, you'd be dead."

"At least I'd still have two legs."

"Hey, better one leg and alive than two legs and dead."

"Debatable."


	31. On His Last Legs

"Is there anything you miss?"

The sudden break in the silence of the morning startled Sherlock out of his focus on the chemistry textbook. He'd been bored for days and finally resorted to running problems in his head just for something to do. He'd used the book in the first days of having his prosthetic, when he'd been limited to about an hour of standing and walking at a time. When the chem textbook came out, it meant Sherlock was on the borderline of going stir crazy. John's strange question indicated he didn't know what to do with himself either and had resorted to small talk.

"Pardon?" Sherlock didn't entirely understand the inquiry.

"Is there anything you miss? From before…all this?"

"Do you want the short list or the long one?" Sherlock meant it jokingly, but he could probably go on for hours.

"Whichever you feel like sharing."

Sherlock glanced over at his leg in the corner—he hadn't bothered to put it on at all this morning—and tried to recall a time before it. Before…all this. Sure, his self care had been immensely simpler before, but if none of this ever happened he wouldn't have met Victor or John. Was it worth the tradeoff? In Sherlock's head, absolutely. What was one leg against two lifelong friends? Yet, of course there were things he missed about his life before he got sick. He used to yearn for them desperately enough to make himself feel ill, but the wanting had long since faded to a dull ache.

"Frankly, it's mostly silly little things," Sherlock finally answered.

"Like what?"

"Like waking up in the middle of the night and being able to stumble to the toilet to relieve myself."

"I completely agree. What do you usually do? Keep crutches beside your bed or just hop for it and hope you don't trip in the dark?"

"When I broke my foot, I resorted to crawling. Nowadays I mostly just lean against the wall and hop."

"Crawling? Really? Somehow, I can't picture you crawling anywhere."

"Yes, crawling. It was not one of my best moments."

"What else?"

"Why are you suddenly being so nosy?" Sherlock questioned.

"There's no case on, and I'm curious," John explained. "So fess up."

"Okay, fine. Give me a second to think." He wracked his brain for another aspect of bipedal life he wished he could have back. There wasn't anything in particular related to the loss of his leg, but plenty of options regarding his illness. "I miss being able to catch a cold or a stomach flu without immediate paranoia."

"Oh." John seemed at a loss for words. "That must be tough."

"I used to have to go to the hospital for a mere fever. Mycroft had basically every room in the house stocked with a thermometer. It was highly annoying."

"Sounds like a necessary precaution to me," John replied.

"Every room?"

"That part's a bit overkill, but your brother does everything to the extreme."

"No kidding."

"I miss my foot falling asleep sometimes," John admitted.

"That's what you miss, of all things?"

"Yeah. It's so…normal. The fact that it never happens anymore is strange."

"Isn't phantom pain kind of the same thing?"

"No. It feels similar, but it's not the same. Phantom pain isn't something that happens to everyone."

"Of course it isn't. It's a special pleasure for people like us."

"Indeed."

"I miss running," Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself. "Really running, at my best, not whatever it is I can do now."

"You used to run?"

"Yes. I ran cross country in secondary school and the first few years of university."

"You don't strike me as a runner," John remarked.

"Well, I'm not anymore, obviously."

"Not physically. Your personality doesn't really match."

"Well, it was a team sport that didn't require much interaction with the team members themselves. It was quite perfect for me, actually. The only time my racing engine of a brain turned off was when I ran. It was…immensely relaxing, if you can believe it."

"I will admit I was just about to ask why you quit," John said sheepishly. "But that's a stupid question."

"Actually, it's not quite what you think. My leg started noticeably hurting around the middle of my last year of university. I attributed it to training too hard and quit the team."

"How long after that were you diagnosed?"

"You're not going to like the answer."

"Try me."

"I finished the school year before I even saw a doctor."

"What?! How could you let that happen?"

"It was ignorable for the first few weeks. Then it was merely bearable. Then I got distracted by finals. But walking out of my last exam, I limped so badly some stranger asked if he should call an ambulance. I said no, but I made a doctor's appointment for the next day."

"You let it go for that long, and they still managed to treat you effectively?"

"It would seem so."

"You realize how lucky you are?"

"Lucky?" Sherlock asked, suddenly angry. "A severed rabbit's foot is lucky, the same superstition does not apply to a severed human foot."

"At least you lived. Some people aren't so fortunate."

"You think I don't know that? John, the things I've seen," Sherlock shuddered at the mere thought, "I've seen what happens to those who 'aren't so fortunate.' I was fortunate enough to earn the privilege of watching them die. And that's WORSE than death, so much worse!"

"How do you think I got blown up in the first place? I was running to save another soldier. When I woke up, I asked if they managed to get to him in time. You know what they told me? They said they had to triage and decided they had a better chance of saving me. They abandoned him just to save my life. I didn't get to watch him die, but I still picture it almost every night!"

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and saw the gurney being wheeled down the hallway, the white sheet covering its occupant. But he hadn't needed to see to figure out who it was; he knew. He felt the strong hands on his arms and shoulders pulling him back from chasing after the body, the touch as real now as it had been on that day. He heard the gentle murmuring of the people around him, indecipherable not because of his poor hearing but because of the distressed ringing in his ears.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked, concern obscuring any of the rage still boiling within him. "Sherlock?" Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and wrenched open his eyes to find John's staring back at him. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock growled, shoving John's hand away.

"You don't look fine. And you're certainly not acting fine."

"I'm fine, I swear. You're misinterpreting." John frowned, disappointed in Sherlock shutting him down, no doubt. There were just some things Sherlock couldn't talk about with anyone who hadn't been there. This incident had never been mentioned to anyone but Victor, and between Sherlock and Victor it would remain.

~0~

Things thawed out between John and Sherlock over the next few days. Solving a case a few days after the argument helped them to forget their hostilities. While they were eating their post-case meal in 221B, Sherlock got a call from Victor.

"Hey, Singlefoot," came his signature greeting.

"Hello. What's up?"

"Well, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?" Victor questioned.

"Good."

"I'm going to America!"

"Why?"

"Therein lies the bad news." Sherlock blanched. "My cancer's not responding to treatment. It's actually spread since I started this new chemo regimen. A hospital in California has an alternative I'm willing to try."

"N—not responding?" Sherlock didn't believe what he heard. Chemotherapy had worked for Victor before, it should be working now.

"Unfortunately, no. But don't worry, Singlefoot, I'm exploring alternatives. And I get a trip abroad out of it!" Sherlock wished he could be so unrelentingly positive, but he knew too much about cancer to remain so hopeful. "We can still Skype, if that's what you're worried about. And I'll be back eventually."

"Victor, that's the least of my concerns right now. I'm worried about the fact that you have to explore alternative treatments in the first place. This regimen should work."

"We don't always get what we want," Victor sighed, finally sounding as defeated as someone in his situation should. With that, he hung up, leaving Sherlock to continue to digest this information on his own.

"What's the matter?" John asked, noticing the expression on Sherlock's face.

"Victor's going to America for an experimental treatment because this one isn't working," Sherlock explained dejectedly.

"Oh no." Not long ago, they'd had the conversation about the horrors of witnessing death. John and Sherlock both understood that if this happened again, the detective might not make it out the other side, certainly not with his sanity intact.

"Oh no is an understatement," Sherlock muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room in frustration. "It's so bloody unfair!" He kicked the leg of the table with his good foot.

"I know." He knew John was only trying to console him, but in its agitated state Sherlock's brain misinterpreted his words as patronizing. He was a few seconds away from either striking John or retreating to his room when his phone rang with Mycroft's tone. Sherlock snatched up his mobile and dashed off to his bedroom, slamming the door satisfyingly behind him.

"Yes?" he said into the phone, the first tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

"Sherlock, I want you to sit down," Mycroft coaxed. Sherlock didn't even bother to ponder how his brother knew he was standing, and just obeyed, flopping down heavily onto his bed. He sniffled, attempting to stop the now steady flow of tears. "Take a deep breath," Mycroft urged, intimately familiar with how to calm Sherlock down when he stressed out like this.

"I can't," Sherlock choked. He tried, but his lungs felt full after a tiny gasp and he was forced to violently exhale again.

"You can." Sherlock shook his head rapidly, heaving in more small gulps of air. Mycroft must've heard him struggle, because he continued, "You having a panic attack does nothing to help Victor." How did he even know about Victor? Sherlock had only just found out. But Mycroft knew everything before Sherlock did, and this was no different. His words, though blunt, did help ease Sherlock's mind ever so slightly. The room spun more slowly around him, though he still couldn't manage a normal breath.

"Myc…it's too much," he spluttered, resorting to his brother's childhood nickname to conserve syllables.

"I know. But you need to keep your wits about you, or you're useless to him, do you hear me?"

"Yes." Of course he was right. What would Victor do if he couldn't rely on Sherlock as a firm shoulder to cry on? He didn't have anyone else who understood like Sherlock did.

"You cannot discern how this is going to end, Sherlock, because it's not over. Do you understand? It's not over." Sherlock nodded, forgetting that Mycroft couldn't see him gesture. Regardless, the elder Holmes inferred this answer. "You can't give up on modern medicine, or on Victor. He wouldn't give up on you."

"No," Sherlock managed to confirm. "He wouldn't."

"Good. Is John home with you?"

"Yes." Sherlock surmised that Mycroft didn't want him alone in such a volatile state.

"Alright. Do you want me to hang up now?" That was odd; his brother didn't typically ask permission before concluding a conversation. But Sherlock was secretly glad he'd been given the option.

"No," he answered meekly.

"Okay." They stayed on the line in silence for ten minutes until Sherlock's breathing finally normalized and he no longer felt like he was about to shake out of his skin. Only then did Sherlock tell his brother he was okay to go. He put the phone down shakily and ran his hands through his hair, tugging hard enough to cause pain.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John's voice echoed from the living room.

"Better now," he answered truthfully. Somehow Mycroft's presence or voice always managed to bring him back from the brink. He picked up his phone again to draft an optimistic text to Victor, but instead his eyes fell on the calendar app. There he found his reminder to adjust his diet tomorrow for scans the following day. His five year scans. The ones that would finally deem him 'cured.'

~0~

For the first time ever, John accompanied him to the hospital. In the past, Sherlock hadn't wanted to burden him with this lingering ghost of his sickness, but he couldn't possibly cope with so much time alone in light of what he'd just learned about his friend. Victor had been in remission nearly as long as Sherlock when his cancer returned. Who's to say this scan wouldn't reveal that Sherlock had gone the same way?

He stared unblinkingly at the crook of his arm while a nurse worked on setting up an IV, for some reason almost smiling at the small rush of blood when she hit a vein correctly. John watched on with professional distance until the nurse left, then he allowed the pity back into his eyes. "How often have you had to do this?"

"Every three months. But if these are clean then that frequency will decrease." Sherlock explained. As he said it, he realized how many 'ifs' and 'unlesses' his future depended on. The next hour and a half passed in near silence, with neither man capable of broaching any topic for conversation. Sherlock was taken back for the scan itself, and immediately upon lying down he felt abnormally claustrophobic. He'd done this countless times before, and it had never bothered him this much. This was what it might feel like to be in a casket, he thought.

The vision of the relapse-discovering radiologist haunted him again, but this time the file did not contain his own name; it read Trevor, Victor. And then suddenly it wasn't a scan printout, but a death certificate that was clutched in his hands. Sherlock began to sweat nervously and wanted to squirm to alleviate some of the anxiety, but he knew he couldn't move or risk causing artifact and ruining the scan. He could do nothing but grit his teeth and futilely attempt to banish the thoughts. He opened his eyes, but that only revealed to him how truly enclosed he was, without an escape route. How easy would it be for the technicians to abandon him in here? What if they just forgot about him?

He fought to keep his breathing under control, and it sort of worked. He remembered Mycroft's words and clung to them like holds on a rock wall. He couldn't just give in to hysteria because he needed to be here, physically and mentally, for his ill friend. Hell, he might be joining Victor in treatment if these results weren't clean. That would be a cruel irony. He might even die first, wouldn't that be crazy?

After three eternities, the scan finally ended and Sherlock sat himself up as soon as he was able. He was handed his crutches and led to the CT scanner to check his lungs once again. This one took far less time than the previous, but Sherlock spent the entire time with his eyes wide open and slowly leaking tears of fear and despair. If these results weren't good, he'd go back to Hell; if they were good, it meant he was unofficially cured. He didn't want to call himself cured when Victor couldn't. Between the two of them, Victor deserved a cure far more than Sherlock did. If he could, he'd switch places, because watching the fight from the sidelines hurt him far worse than actually fighting ever did.

~0~

Mycroft called. Sherlock waited for those two little words he'd always eagerly awaited, the words that meant he'd successfully controlled his cell growth for the past months. He wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to hear anymore.

Mycroft said, "You're fine."

And Sherlock thought, "No, I'm bloody not."


	32. Toeing the Line

"Sherlock, this is good news," John assured him. His efforts were futile. What should have been the happiest moment of Sherlock's life had turned into a nightmare of garish proportions. Every single successful scan in the past, he'd shared the results with Victor. How could he do that now without sounding like he was rubbing it in his face? What was he supposed to do with this news when he couldn't share it with anyone who truly understood what it meant to him?

"That's exactly the problem," Sherlock replied. "I need good news, just not good news about me. I don't want it if he can't have it too."

"I'm sorry, but it doesn't work like that. You have to accept the news you're given and work from there."

"What if you're given unacceptable news?"

"Sherlock, I know this is hard. I can't imagine what you're going through right now, but doing whatever this is you're doing is not going to help anything."

"What is it that I'm doing?"

"I don't even know, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "But whatever it is isn't healthy."

"Neither is cancer!"

Sherlock effectively shut down the rest of the conversation by pulling off his hearing aids and stomping off to his room. He placed them on the bedside table and lay down, staring up at the ceiling above him. "It's just cancer," he whispered to himself. But of course it fucking wasn't.

~0~

Victor's Skype calls from California decreased in frequency over the next two months, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. He never answered when Sherlock called him from London, even when he double checked the time zones to ensure he called at a reasonable hour. He provided minimal information about this alternative treatment—Sherlock assumed it was a drug trial—and Sherlock was left guessing. He didn't hear from Victor for two entire weeks until one fateful phone call.

He heard the ring tone reserved for Victor and picked up immediately, eager to finally talk to his friend after such an extended period of radio silence. However, an unfamiliar voice spoke to him from the other end: "Is this Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, this is Sherlock," he answered, wondering who this woman was and how she ended up calling him from Victor's phone. "To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Victor's mother." Oh. Sherlock had never met either of Victor's parents, and Victor almost never spoke of them. The fact that she picked up Victor's phone to call him set his nerves on edge.

"Why are you calling? Is Victor still in America?"

"No, he's home now."

"Oh, that's good," Sherlock noted. The woman's breath hitched, which Sherlock knew was definitely not a good sign. His stomach sank before he even heard the horrible words.

"Not exactly. He—he's here for hospice care."

"Hospice?" Sherlock croaked. He heard her perfectly and knew exactly what the word meant, but he didn't want to believe it.

"Yes. He didn't want to tell you, but I know he'll want to see you at least one more time before…" she trailed off, abandoning the rest of the sentence entirely.

"He didn't want to tell me?" Sherlock knew he'd done nothing but repeat Victor's mother's words for this entire conversation, but his brain couldn't manage much more.

"He wanted to wait until it was all over. He didn't want to worry you," she explained. If he didn't want Sherlock to worry, he shouldn't have ignored his calls for two weeks. It would've been unimaginably awful if Sherlock knew nothing of Victor's fate until he actually bit the dust. He never would've forgiven himself if he hadn't sent his friend off with a proper goodbye. He couldn't let Victor's last days be spent in the company of only his parents and hired nurses.

~0~

Not once had Sherlock ever visited Victor's parents' home. It was rather nice, not as sprawling and oversized as Mycroft's, but homey. He'd told Victor's mother that he would be visiting this afternoon, and she answered the door with a forced cheeriness. "Hello Sherlock dear, thank you so much for coming," she greeted. Of course, her gaze almost immediately flicked to his right foot, but he had worn the foot instead of the blade today in anticipation of this. He smiled at her as she looked sheepishly back up at his face. "Sorry," she said, knowing that Sherlock had noticed her focus. "Victor's told us so much about you."

"All good things, I hope?" Sherlock asked, following her inside.

"Well…mostly," she replied enigmatically. Sherlock chuckled, wondering what sorts of lies or stretched truths she'd heard from her son.

"How is he?" he inquired earnestly.

"He's coping. They said he has a few weeks left, maybe two months." Sherlock gritted his teeth and swallowed hard at such dismal news. "He doesn't know you're here, but I know he'll be happy to see you."

She led him down a hallway from the kitchen towards a closed door. She knocked and was invited in with a raspy, "Come in." The door creaked open slowly and Sherlock stepped quietly in behind her. Victor looked first to his mother, then to the unexpected addition behind her.

"Singlefoot? I didn't think I'd reached the delirious phase of this whole thing yet," Victor said, pausing for breath every four words or so. Sherlock took in the oxygen cannula draped across his face and other various medical paraphernalia beside the bed. At least it hadn't been replaced with a regulation hospital bed, Victor's own bed with a zany patterned comforter remained.

"You're not delirious. It's me," Sherlock announced. He stepped a few meters closer and sat down at the foot of the bed, taking in Victor's sickly pale complexion.

"Why are you here?"

"To see you, of course. I missed you while you were away. You didn't even answer my Skype calls."

"I was a bit busy," Victor said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"A bit busy pretending it would be better if I never knew?" Sherlock challenged.

"Yeah."

"I'm here to tell you off. But nicely. You shouldn't have kept this from me."

"But I didn't want to make you sad. You're five years NED now, aren't you? You should be celebrating your new lease on life, not hanging back with me."

"I'll do whatever I want to. And I want to be here to make sure you don't die of boredom before the cancer even gets a chance." Sherlock hoped his attempt at a joke wouldn't be taken the wrong way, and he wasn't disappointed. Victor laughed slightly, not enough to upset his fragile lungs, but enough that Sherlock could feel his joy.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, are you up for poker, or is today more of a crap movie day?"

~0~

Sherlock visited almost every other day, prioritizing time with Victor over literally everything else. He paused a case, and a nine at that, to make time for his ailing friend. Mostly they just sat beside each other and watched television or movies; Victor rarely had the energy for much more than that. Over time, Sherlock noticed the addition of more monitoring equipment and a PCA to Victor's bedroom.

One day, Sherlock brought along navy blue nail polish. He offered it to Victor, who at the time was more asleep than awake. "Wha's this?" he asked blearily.

"It's nail polish. For painting your fingers and toes, just like you did mine. Remember?"

"Yeah."

"What if I painted your nails this time? Just as a funny little gag."

"I'd like that," Victor mumbled, offering his left hand. Sherlock, who had never done this before, gave it his best effort, with satisfactory end results. The polish wasn't necessarily an even coat, but at least it was contained to his fingernails. "Pretty," Victor said, admiring Sherlock's handiwork. "But I did better with your foot."

"Too bad all the evidence of that is long gone."

~0~

About a week later, a significantly more coherent Victor requested Sherlock watch a movie with him during his visit. "Of course," Sherlock complied. "Which one?"

"The Fault in Our Stars," Victor stated firmly. Sherlock froze. He didn't know much about pop culture, but he knew enough to figure that was not a proper choice for a terminal cancer patient like Victor.

"I don't know if that's a good idea. How about something else?" he suggested.

"No." Victor sounded more sure of himself than he ever had in as long as Sherlock had known him. Sherlock looked him in the eyes and saw the earnestness behind them; he really wanted this. "We're watching it."

How could Sherlock say no? He wasn't worried that Victor would react badly to such a subject matter, but that he himself would break down upon watching. He started the movie and lay down next to Victor in the proffered spot. He remembered his own last day in the hospital after his amputation, lying in his bed with Victor just like this and discussing the sound of a cat in a woodchipper. How innocent and carefree they'd both been.

Victor kept a running commentary throughout the entire movie, and Sherlock was glad for the distraction from the actual, devastating plot. He didn't want to watch two cancerous teenagers fall in love, because he knew how it would end within the first two minutes of the film. There was no way both of them would make it out alive.

"Hey Sherlock, I'm the Hazel and you're totally the Augustus," Victor remarked once both characters had been introduced. He was right, of course. Victor had failing lungs, and Sherlock had lost a leg. The similarity was almost uncanny.

"How come we never went to Amsterdam?" Victor asked later in the film.

"Too many bicycles," Sherlock answered.

"Did you ever play basketball?"

"No, Victor, I didn't. I was a runner."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're not anymore, Singlefoot, are you?" Victor said with a slightly giddy laugh.

"Nope, not anymore."

Sherlock despised the last third of this movie, especially considering the comparison that had just been made between him and the character of Augustus Waters. He thought about how easy it would've been for him to have ended up like that, fighting a second and losing battle. How ironic that Victor, the Hazel Lancaster parallel, would succumb first.

They both cried when Gus died. They were grown men, but that didn't matter in this case. They were grown men who'd seen what this beast could do to a person, grown men who were currently living in its endgame. Sherlock wished he were like blind Isaac, unable to watch this tragedy unfold before him.

"Sherlock," Victor whispered after the credits had finished rolling.

"Yes?"

"I don't want you to be the Hazel to my Gus. I don't want you to be sad."

Sherlock shuddered in a deep, sorrowful breath. He could not promise Victor that he wouldn't be sad, because that would be lying, and he never lied to Victor. He would be miserably sad, because losing Victor would be like losing a limb. Actually, it would be immensely worse. A limb could be replaced with a prosthetic with nearly identical function, but there was no such thing as a prosthetic for an entire person. Victor could not be replaced with a person-shaped hunk of metal and plastic. No amount of physical therapy could train Sherlock to keep on walking without Victor.

"Victor, you know why I can't do that," Sherlock said. "Wouldn't you be sad if I died?"

"Not if you asked me not to be," he replied sweetly. Sherlock managed half a smile at this quip.

"I hope you would be sad. If you weren't, that means all of this means nothing to you."

"All of what?"

"Our friendship. If you lose something and don't feel anything about it, it means you never really cared about it in the first place."

"Did you care about your foot?"

"Yes, I did. It took a long time before I came to terms with the fact that it wasn't there anymore."

"Will it take you a long time to get over me?" Victor questioned, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Forever," Sherlock replied.

~0~

Sherlock's last visit fell on a Tuesday. At this point, Victor didn't have the breath or the energy to say much at all, but Sherlock understood what every flick of his eyes meant. They could both feel the finality in the air. Sherlock picked up Victor's hand and admired the traces of blue nail polish still left behind, a reminder of the beginning of this crazy journey. At one time, he'd thought he had nothing more to lose than his stupid leg, that nothing could possibly be worse. He was wrong.

Suddenly, Victor fixated on an empty spot in the corner of the room. He stared at it intently for several minutes, seemingly puzzling out what stood there. Sherlock could tell things were coming to a head when Victor muttered the name: "Mort?"

He looked to where Victor's gaze fell, but of course Sherlock saw nothing standing there. He knew what this meant. Victor wouldn't see Mort if it weren't nearly his time to join him on the other side. Sherlock crept out of the room and fetched Victor's parents, nodding at them knowingly. He didn't have to say the words for them to understand what was going on. They hurried back into the room and watched Victor continue to look fixatedly at that one spot on the carpet.

"Tell Mort I said hello," Sherlock instructed him, squeezing Victor's hand one last time before leaving him alone with his parents. "Ok," Victor huffed out a reply. Sherlock didn't want to be there when it happened. The only people who should be there for the end were those who had been there at the beginning. He quietly exited the house and returned home to Baker Street, his mind devoid of all thought entirely. He went through the motions of unlocking the door and trudging upstairs without registering what he was doing. He grabbed his laptop and opened up Ophelia's website. He went to the page with the flowers falling into the pond, each representing a cancer death in the world. He sat unmoving and watched flowers of different colors fall for two hours, eleven minutes, and thirty seven seconds. Then Victor's mother called.

A single white rose fell peacefully and sank into the water below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm sorry


	33. Kicking and Screaming

Sherlock slammed the laptop closed and set it gently on the table. He didn't know where John was, though he suspected the doctor somehow knew what would transpire today and had decided to give Sherlock some space. For a moment, he listened for any signs of life, but only heard footsteps from downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat. He hoped she wouldn't misinterpret what he was about to do.

Like water on the verge of boiling, his rage at the unfairness of this wretched disease bubbled up from deep inside him and spilled out. Once again, he kicked the leg of the innocent table, with far more force than he had last time. On the second kick, the table actually shifted, though Sherlock could not feel the stinging pain in his toes.

He lost count of how many times he pummeled the stupid table leg, and then he gave up and resorted to pacing back and forth across the room. He stared down at his feet, mesmerized by the steady rhythm of right, left, right, left, right, left, right. How was it fair that he'd been restored when so many people weren't? What had he done to deserve a cure? He wasn't special; he was just another person unlucky enough to start overgrowing mutant cells, and of the countless people with the same condition, he'd escaped. Not unscathed by any means, but he'd escaped.

"It's just cancer," he repeated. When Ophelia first said that, he'd marveled at her strength, relegating something so severe to three little words. Now he marveled at her ignorance of the true ramifications of this disease. It wasn't just cancer. It was a game of Russian roulette that nobody ever willingly played. It was the perfect device for building a community, for finding friends, and then having them viciously ripped away one by one. Far more sinister than any creature that had appeared in a horror movie or Stephen King novel, it was the perfect monster.

Cancer had taken so much away from him, from everyone it touched. Every day, it took innocent children's lives, took parents' beautiful babies away from them prematurely. It robbed Sherlock of his hearing and of his leg, just as it had to countless other victims. And the only thing cancer had actually given him, it later went back and stole. It had provided him a second family, a camaraderie the likes of which he'd never known before, and then it shot down his fellow soldiers and left him standing in the middle of the battlefield all alone.

"You won," people would tell him. "You beat cancer."

"No I didn't!" he shouted aloud. "Cancer beat me!" It whipped him again and again until his body and his soul bore more scars than unmarred flesh. It threw him to the ground and planted a foot between his shoulders to watch him struggle to stand. It tied him to a chair and executed his friends in front of his eyes, not even allowing him time to blink. How could he ever say that he won when he lost so much along the way? What was left of him that even mattered anymore?

He reached up to his right ear and pulled off his hearing aid, staring at it with utter hatred. He tossed it to the ground and crushed it with his heel, then did the same to his left. They were a temporary fix, anyway, a bandage on yet another weeping wound inflicted by cancer. So was his leg. Still standing in the middle of the living room, he pulled it off and tossed it, not caring where it landed. He ripped off the liner, leaving nothing but bare stump. He wanted to yank out all the hardware, the pins and screws that kept his reconfigured bones together, but of course he couldn't. He maintained his balance for a few seconds before the weight of his grief pulled him to the floor.

He didn't register the pain of hitting the ground, only the roaring agony in his mind. It clawed at him, raking through his insides like a stag's antlers through tree bark. Why couldn't it have been him? It would've been so much easier to succumb to cancer than to endure it and everything after it. He'd take any quantity of physical torture over this. He knew from experience that the meds for physical pain were far more effective.

He didn't hear the footsteps coming up the stairs, but he did hear the door slam open, and he saw John's silhouette approaching out of the corner of his eye. Somewhere in his brain he registered John taking off his own leg and lowering himself down to sit beside Sherlock. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him in close.

"It took everything," Sherlock mumbled, burying his face in John's chest.

"I know," John placated. He rubbed comforting circles in Sherlock's upper back, and some of the stressed tension finally released.

"Why did it take everything, but spare me?"

"I don't know. Nobody can know," John assured. Somehow, he understood the antecedent of Sherlock's 'it' without having to ask. He knew exactly what had robbed Sherlock of so much.

"Why?" Sherlock cried again.

"Sometimes an explanation doesn't make us feel better."

"Nothing will ever make me feel better. I've lost the ability to experience any emotion beyond sorrow."

"No, that's not true. Right now, you're angry, and confused, and lost, and that's to be expected. What's happened to you over these past few weeks…it's horrible, and I cannot express how sorry I am. But you cannot make generalizations about your entire future in this state of mind."

Sherlock understood fundamentally that John was right, but he could not bring himself to visualize anything other than this anguish here and now. This grief had swallowed him whole, and he didn't possess the energy to crawl his way out.

"It hurts," Sherlock squeaked, clutching John even tighter than before. He had nobody left who could properly empathize in situations like this.

"I know," John sighed, squeezing back. "You just lost your best friend; your entire world has come crashing down around you. It should hurt. That means he's important to you."

"You're wrong."

"How am I wrong?"

John's miniature speech made perfect sense to Sherlock, except for one minor detail. At one time, Victor had been Sherlock's closest friend, but once they both moved on from the world of cancer, Sherlock widened his social circle. He made new friends, and one in particular managed to surpass the level of intimacy he'd had with Victor. John Watson was so much more than his flatmate and case-cracking companion, and Sherlock told him as much: "You're my best friend."

~0~

On the morning of the funeral, Sherlock didn't get dressed immediately. He woke up, saw the suit hanging on the back of the door where he'd left it last night, and choked up. He often dressed in clothing similar to this, but reserved this particular suit for somber occasions such as this. He didn't call it his funeral suit, although that's exactly what it was.

"John, should I wear the blade or the foot today?" Sherlock asked his flatmate. Translation: do you want everyone there to immediately know who I am, or should they have to guess at it?

"I'm wearing a foot," John replied. "Don't want to draw attention to myself."

"Okay." Sherlock agreed and slid on his footed leg with the correct shoe already on. He finished getting dressed and walked over to the bedside table for his hearing aids, once again forgetting he'd smashed them a few days prior. He'd done this every morning since he broke them, the habit being so deeply ingrained that he couldn't remember to forego it. Replacements were en route, though they weren't due to arrive for another two days at least. Living without them reminded him just how much he'd come to rely on them. He almost regretted crushing them. Almost. At the time, it had been a necessary outlet for his rage and frustration, just as today's funeral was necessary to the mourning process.

Sherlock didn't want to have to attend another funeral in the first place, but under no circumstances would he miss this. Unlike most people who knew him, Sherlock had actually gotten to say a goodbye in person, but it didn't carry the same symbolism as watching a casket lowered into the ground. Closure, he'd heard it called. He, and everyone involved, needed closure.

The number of people at the funeral whom Sherlock didn't know surprised him slightly. Victor's social circle was apparently far wider than Sherlock ever would've guessed for someone who could occasionally be barbaric in his realism. He saw Victor's parents addressing various well-wishers, miraculously composed for two people who'd just lost their only son. He decided he would approach them a bit later, give them a chance to accept apologies from others before he expressed his condolences.

Sherlock scanned the back of the room and among the sea of unfamiliar faces found Mycroft, of all people. Sherlock quickly strode over to him and forwardly embraced him without hesitating to ask first. His brother was the only one who had seen his friendship with Victor blossom from the start. He'd seen the positive change Victor had instigated in Sherlock during the first phase of treatment, so he uniquely understood the gravity of this loss.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he whispered in his ear. He didn't pull away from the hug as soon as Sherlock had expected, holding on long enough to draw a few glances from nearby people.

"It is what it is," Sherlock replied with a sigh. Before coming, he'd decided that would be his go-to phrase for anyone who recognized him and apologized for his loss or anything like that. He didn't trust himself to say anything more without breaking down again.

He stepped away from his brother and continued searching the room for familiar faces. At first glance he didn't recognize her, five years older and with a full head of hair, but a quick glance at her leg proved it was actually her. He should've guessed she would be here, but regardless, seeing her in a place like this threw him for a loop. Ophelia. She noticed him almost as soon as he noticed her and immediately headed in his direction. Sherlock literally hadn't seen her since Victor introduced them in the hospital all those years ago. She looked so much older, but still far too young to have seen and endured the things she had.

"It's Sherlock, right?" she questioned, looking for confirmation that she'd correctly addressed him after so long.

"Yes," he said. "Hello Ophelia." Evidently, her relapse had been properly dealt with, because she looked as healthy as any young girl ought to, minus the missing knee joint.

"The last time I saw you, you were mere weeks out of surgery and still hobbling around on crutches," she remarked, looking him up and down now that she had a closer look. Sherlock struggled to make out some of her words over the background chatter in the rest of the room, but he filled in the gaps with context clues and lip reading.

"Well, it's been a while. Last time I saw you, you were one dose away from finishing chemo regimen number two. I'm assuming it worked?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, some aren't so lucky," she said dismally, gaze falling to the floor. There was that word again: lucky. How odd that two people who were literally missing legs could ever consider themselves among the lucky ones.

"I got your T-shirt," he said, changing the subject. "You took Victor's advice and used the phrase."

"Yep. They sold really well, even better than I imagined, actually. And all of the proceeds went to cancer research."

"That's amazing." All around them, people began to take their seats, so they bid each other farewell and prepared for the service. Sherlock found John and sat down beside him.

"Who was that?" John whispered. Sherlock stared at him blankly. "Who was that?" he repeated a bit louder, making sure to enunciate.

"That's Ophelia," Sherlock answered.

"The Ophelia? The one who sent you that shirt?"

"Yes. I met her in the hospital a few weeks after my amputation."

"I know."

"How?"

"Um…Victor told me. We had a chat when you had your surgery for the blood clot."

"Oh."

Their conversation was terminated by the speaker clearing his throat. The service began, and Sherlock listened intently. Fortunately, the microphone provided adequate amplification. Truly, every word was beautiful. This man spoke as if he knew Victor personally, immortalizing him in as honorable a manner as Sherlock had ever seen. He almost forgot to be sad, instead dredging up all the happy, excited, and downright ludicrous memories of his time with Victor. Honestly, without him, Sherlock wouldn't have made it through treatment. Victor had saved his life, only to have his own taken away by the same threat.

For this reason, Sherlock knew he couldn't waste it. He couldn't let whatever remained of his life be spent in extended mourning, clutching the past to which he could never return. He needed to make it count, whether he lasted another forty years, another twenty, or a mere five.

~0~

John felt incredibly alienated among all these people who mourned for Victor Trevor. Of course he knew the man, but only on a superficial level. He'd interacted with him only on a few occasions, and every time either directly or indirectly involved Sherlock. He and Victor had nothing in common beyond a single mutual friend.

And what a friend he was.

John had sat by and watched Sherlock express unrivaled devotion, visiting Victor at least every other day during his final weeks. He gave up several fascinating cases to be there for his dying friend. John knew it was hard on him, could read his heartache in the lines of his face every time he returned from Victor's house, but was shocked time and time again by the strength he displayed.

He should've known it was only a matter of time before Sherlock cracked under the pressure. The man had endured far more than any single person should have to in his relatively short lifetime, and John could adequately sympathize with only a small proportion of those tragedies. Yes, both men had lost a leg, but under drastically different circumstances. John didn't even register his disfigurement until it was all over. He took one step on two legs, was knocked out, and woke up again with only one. Sherlock, on the other hand, had to enlist in the ranks of amputees. He'd had to sign the paperwork giving people permission to chop it off. John couldn't imagine the stress of making a decision like that.

That agony coupled with the loss of a close friend meant disaster for Sherlock's mental health. John had feared the worst when he walked upstairs into the flat and saw Sherlock's leg tossed across the room. He'd thought someone had broken in and attacked him or something, until he saw Sherlock himself curled up in the middle of the floor. Without hesitation or regard for the connotations, he'd embraced the other man. He'd needed to make sure Sherlock knew he wasn't alone despite such a massive loss. John wasn't going anywhere, not as long as Sherlock needed him.

John had assumed all this time that Sherlock considered Victor his best friend. It would be hard not to after so many shared trials and tribulations, but evidently John had misjudged the detective's priorities. His touching statement had shocked John, but he knew no higher honor than to hear Sherlock Holmes tell him, "You're my best friend." The man more-than-occasionally forgot his manners and social graces, resulting in a rather small quantity of friends. Many people, especially the poor plebes at Scotland Yard whom he relentlessly insulted whenever he got the chance, downright hated him. John wondered how their opinions would change if they knew the scope of the hardship Sherlock had endured.

Frankly, he had every right to be a complete arsehole. Life had punished him enough; wasn't it only fair that he returned some to the rest of the world? In fact, Sherlock had all the backstory to be an even worse civilian than he already was, yet he capped his misbehavior to verbal insults of those less intelligent than himself and the occasional omission of manners. After witnessing his devotion to Victor in such a time of need, John had no doubt Sherlock was a good man at heart. No sociopath could ever possess such compassion for an old friend.


	34. Re-Starting on the Right Foot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, last chapter! I'm both excited and sad for this incredible story to end. But, as you'll read in the post-chapter author's notes, it's not really over :)

Slowly but surely, Sherlock recovered. It took far longer to heal from this than it had from any of his past major surgeries, but he crept his way farther and farther from the rage and sorrow than had corrupted him on the day of Victor's death. He actually took joy in cases again, when for a while he only forced himself to solve them out of a sense of duty to Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had never known Victor, and Sherlock had never explained the situation to him, but he assumed John had informed him of the reason for Sherlock's chronic black mood.

Sherlock noticed the strange stares he got from other Scotland Yard employees, looks that revealed how desperately they wanted to know what was 'wrong with him.' On several occasions, he considered telling them the truth, but every time he stopped himself. He had no obligation to feed their insatiable curiosity about his personal life. Besides, so early on, he didn't think he could talk about it without tearing up, and he didn't want to ruin his stoic reputation by spilling his tragic backstory to people he hardly even knew. Whether Lestrade informed them of anything, Sherlock didn't know, and he didn't care.

Gradually, things slid back into their usual dynamic at Scotland Yard. Sherlock was no longer as fascinating to the others as he'd been in the immediate aftermath. He was once again the arrogant consultant that never hesitated to demean them if they suggested something he considered irrelevant.

But he still wasn't content. Of course, he would never be one hundred percent okay after losing Victor like that, but he felt unfulfilled. At the funeral, he'd thought to himself that he needed to make the rest of his own life, however long it lasted, count for something. Catching murderers and criminals was great, but it was beginning to feel impersonal. He didn't want to just bring killers to justice, he wanted to stop these deaths before they even happened. He wanted to help stop deaths like Victor's.

Fortunately, he'd managed to obtain Ophelia's contact information before she left the funeral. As adamantly as he'd once denied wanting to be 'in the loop,' that's how badly he now wanted in. As John occasionally reminded him, he was relatively famous due to his more high-profile cases, and he intended to use this influence. It would seem strange for a detective to suddenly start supporting cancer research without any known cause, so Sherlock decided he needed an effective way to make his history public.

As he pondered how to do this, he remembered how he'd nearly been outed when someone managed to photograph a glimpse of his hearing aids. A journalist called Kitty Riley had published an entire article on possible identities of the devices and why he might be using them. Most of her conclusions had been erroneous or downright incorrect, but the subsequent social media storm indicated that the public was genuinely interested.

After drafting and sending an email to Ophelia how he could assist in her cause, he summoned John to discuss his plans for the future. He wasn't sure if the doctor would support him wholeheartedly or try to discourage him, but there was only one way to find out.

"You want to do what now?" John asked, puzzled.

"I want the world to know," Sherlock clarified. "About me. Not just the consulting detective façade."

"It's not a façade, that's what you are."

"But it's not all I am. I can't be just a detective anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because it feels wrong! I can't continue on as if nothing happened. I can't ignore the most dangerous murderer we've ever faced, the one that killed so many of my friends."

John snapped his mouth shut in shock at the ferocity of Sherlock's declaration. "Okay," he relented.

"I just wanted to run it by you first because if my backstory goes public, parts of yours might as well. Are you okay with that?"

"If it's what you want, yeah, I'm fine with it. But are you sure you want this kind of attention? I know you hate pity, but you might receive some whether you like it or not if the world finds out everything you've been through."

"It'll be worth it."

~0~

Kitty Riley sat in the chair usually reserved for clients while Sherlock and John occupied their respective armchairs in 221B's living room. Sherlock had contacted her and promised the story of a lifetime, one that would certainly top her previous article about him. Before sitting down, she'd scrutinized every inch of the living room as if she'd be quizzed on it later.

Sherlock watched her with muted fascination and braced himself to let this near-stranger in on what he considered his darkest secrets. He and John had both worn a foot instead of a blade so that they could reveal on their own terms. The press had yet to catch either of them wearing a blade in public, so most people remained unaware of the one-leggedness of the famous detective.

"So, this story you promised…" the journalist began once she finally took a seat. "Care to actually tell me what I came all this way for? Is it a special murder you've solved?"

"Nothing of the sort, actually," Sherlock informed her curtly.

"Then why am I here?"

"Just out of curiosity, how much recognition did you get for the 'Hacked or Hearing Impaired' article?"

"It was my most successful piece ever," she replied. Sherlock and John exchanged a knowing glance. Whatever publicity that had received, this would undoubtedly dwarf it. "Are you going to confirm one of my hypotheses? Was someone actually feeding you information?"

"I'm afraid it's nothing of the sort." Sherlock pulled of his right hearing aid and offered it to her. She took it and examined it thoroughly before handing it back. Sherlock replaced it quickly. When he'd smashed them and had to endure without, he'd realized just how much he needed them, and nowadays he found himself almost unwilling to take them off, even to sleep.

"An ordinary hearing aid," she said.

"Indeed."

"That's not a story."

"Not on its own, no. It's the cause of it that I think is rather newsworthy."

"What, were you kidnapped and methodically poisoned?"

"Actually, that's not too far from the truth," Sherlock stated. The kidnapping wasn't quite accurate, but methodical poisoning basically summarized that horrid year of his life.

"Really?"

"Have you ever heard of ototoxicity?" he asked with a slight grin.

"Not exactly, but based on the roots the meaning of the word is pretty obvious. Something damaging to the ears?"

"Exactly. What many people don't know is that ototoxicity is a side effect of certain chemotherapy drugs."

"Chemotherapy?" She sounded like she didn't quite follow his train of thought.

"Yes."

"So, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"What do you think I'm saying?"

"That whoever did this had access to well-restricted substances and is therefore quite dangerous."

"No!" Clearly, Kitty Riley wasn't quite as astute as she'd initially appeared. She was twisting his facts to fit her hypothesis, and not adjusting her hypothesis to fit his facts—a dreadfully common mistake among amateurs. "Nobody stole chemo drugs to poison anyone, they were prescribed to me."

"Why?"

"Why does anyone get prescribed chemo?"

"Wait a minute, so you're saying…that you had cancer?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, glad he hadn't had to say the words himself. He rubbed his temples in aggravation as she whipped out a legal pad and a pen, eager to begin scribbling down his every word.

"Why is this just now coming to light?" she inquired.

"It didn't seem like pertinent information until now."

"Why not?"

"It didn't matter as a detective. But right now I'm working towards more involvement in the cancer survivor community and I want to clear up any confusion as to my motives with this cause."

"What spurred this desire?"

"The loss of a dear friend," he admitted solemnly. "And no, I will not elaborate on that."

"I'm so sorry." She placed her pad of paper back in her lap and looked at him earnestly. Sherlock could feel the pity emanating from her; it made the air he breathed heavier and somehow sadder. Her saying that dredged up the feelings all over again and he almost lost his composure, regaining it only through a comforting nod from John. "Do you need a minute?" Kitty Riley asked kindly.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. "Though if you'd kindly stay away from that topic, it'd be much appreciated."

"Of course. Is it okay if I start at the beginning? When were you diagnosed?"

Sherlock had to pause to do the math in his head; it had been so long. "About six and a half years ago." Wow, to say it out loud made it seem so much longer. It felt like mere days ago he'd been lying inside a scanner thinking he just had shin splints or something else benign. Six and a half years seemed like forever. "I've been in remission for five and half years now," he added.

"That's a long time," she commented.

"Yes, it is. The benchmark for being considered 'cured' is five years."

"Which type of cancer was it?"

"Osteosarcoma," he answered. "In my right leg, below the knee." She nodded as she scribbled this down. He didn't know if she'd ever heard of it, as it wasn't one of the more well-known forms.

"Do you have any other lasting side effects besides the hearing loss?"

Sherlock rolled up his trouser leg far enough to expose the artificial ankle and asked with a chuckle, "Does this count?"

~0~

"Sherlock, why do you always have to be so dramatic?" John asked mere seconds after they'd seen the journalist out the door.

"What do you mean?"

"You couldn't have warned her before throwing that in her face like that?"

"Warned her how? By saying, 'what I'm about to show you is pretty crazy, are you sure you're prepared for it?' That's ridiculous."

"You would have saved her a near panic attack if you'd said you lost a leg instead of just brandishing it."

"Well, where's the fun in that?"

After his abrupt reveal, Kitty Riley had needed a few seconds to regain her composure before she bulldozed onward with her interview. Sherlock eventually got bored of answering her questions, but John prevented him from leaving with a look that invited no argument. He told her pretty much everything about life as an amputee and former cancer patient, and her questions were extensive. He'd be surprised if this article was even readable in one sitting when—if—it was eventually published. He doubted he'd have to wait long to notice when the word got out.

~0~

He noticed immediately. Both Sherlock's personal inbox and the one associated with John's blog exploded overnight with messages. Many were just of sympathy, as if he were still suffering in treatment, but a select few came from fellow survivors congratulating him on coming clean. They said it was a relief to have someone well-known around the country in their corner.

In addition to the interview with Kitty Riley, Sherlock had been in contact with Ophelia, learning about what she and her organization were doing. After a very brief discussion, Sherlock and John had unanimously decided to declare on the blog that a percentage of proceeds made from solving cases would go to cancer research. They didn't need all the money with John's job and Mycroft not-so-secretly subsidizing their flat.

His fame skyrocketed. Not because he'd solved a high-profile case, as had been the reason most other times, but because people genuinely wanted to read his sob story. Although, he supposed it wasn't much of a sob story anymore. Despite his earlier fears at being pitied, he discovered that most people he encountered nowadays regarded him with awe. He'd never stopped to consider that surviving cancer was an awe-inspiring feat by any stretch of the imagination. He knew from personal experience that there was nothing awesome about it, but he'd certainly take that over pity.

~0~

He met with Ophelia in person a few times to talk shop, and she taught him things that shocked him. "In America, only four percent of the national cancer research budget is dedicated to childhood cancer. Kids are getting the same drugs now as people forty years ago," she explained.

"That's awful."

"Of course it is. And adult chemotherapy drugs just don't cut it. Oftentimes it's not the cancer that kills them, it's the dramatic side effects of a drug not designed to work in a small, young body."

Sherlock would've thought the opposite would be true, that children received more attention and funding. Children seemingly received most of the support from public charities like the Make-a-Wish foundation. Sherlock wondered what advances could be made if all that money went into finding a cure for some of the diseases affecting these children instead of giving them fancy vacations or presents. But of course, that would never happen. In all honesty, a fancy vacation was probably more beneficial than increased research funding, at least in the short term. With cancer and other diseases, life was always lived in the short term.

"Sherlock, a colleague of mine has been asking for you," Ophelia informed him one day.

"Who?"

"His name is Culverton Smith, he runs a major hospital."

"Wasn't he an actor? I recognize the name."

"Yeah, he played a serial killer in some crime drama. But he's a really nice guy in real life, I promise."

"I would hope anyone running a hospital is a nice guy," Sherlock huffed jokingly. "Anyway, why has he been asking for me?"

"He wants you to pay a visit, maybe interact with some patients to cheer them up."

"I don't know how to cheer people up," Sherlock admitted. "Most people tell me I'm a bit of a downer."

"You don't really have to do anything," she promised, "just show up and you'll make them happy."

"If you say so."

He did show up, with John in tow of course, and almost balked. He hated entering hospitals. Nothing good ever happened to him when he went inside one. But he'd made a promise, so he forced himself through the door and was almost immediately met by a short, stout man he vaguely recognized. Maybe John had once forced him to watch an episode of whatever show this man had been on.

"Sherlock Holmes, so nice to finally meet you!" he said merrily. Sherlock offered a handshake, per tradition, but the man barely acknowledged it. "That simply won't do, it'll have to be a hug." When he eventually released Sherlock, he gave him a once-over and smiled unnecessarily.

"Nice to meet you as well," Sherlock stated formally. "This is John Watson." He gestured to the doctor at his side, whom Smith also hugged.

"The kids are so excited to meet you," Smith informed him, leading the way down several hallways. Sherlock tried not to listen too closely to the ambient noise that pervaded all hospitals for fear it would make him flash back or something awful. He considered turning down his hearing aids to block it out, but didn't want to risk mishearing the people around him. They finally stopped when they reached a brightly colored room full of playing children. Though most of them were obviously sick, they didn't seem to notice it themselves and played with the same joyous abandon as any child.

However, when they caught sight of him, they stopped in their tracks and ran over, fanning out around him like wolves circling a carcass. "Is it really you?" one high-pitched voice asked. Culverton Smith drew their attention with a wave of his hands, and they turned their shining eyes to him. Evidently, they all knew him, and listened raptly as he introduced doctor and detective. He led them over to a sitting area in the corner and had someone procure adult-sized chairs for himself, Sherlock, and John.

Several of the children were bald, other wearing face masks to protect them from germs that could so easily spread in an environment like this. Though Sherlock hadn't been that young, he saw a bit of his old self in them. The kids, on the other hand, didn't really act sick. If they understood the gravity of their situation, they didn't let it show. Sherlock did notice that whenever they weren't looking eagerly at his face, they stared at his right foot—well, today it was actually a blade. He'd decided to go for comfort over appearance today. Walking was noticeably easier and more natural for him with a blade than a flat foot.

"Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson?" Culverston Smith addressed the assembled crowd of children. Almost all of their hands went up immediately, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at their insatiable curiosity. Surprisingly, the first child called on did not ask about his leg, but chose a different line of inquiry.

"Are you deaf?" he asked bluntly. If an adult had asked him this, he would've been offended by their brusqueness, but coming from a child the questions assumed a different tone automatically. Additionally, Sherlock observed that the child asked the question simultaneously in sign language, indicating that he also suffered from some form of hearing loss. Sherlock knew the language, not because he'd ever needed to use it, but because he'd taught himself out of boredom one summer in primary school.

Sherlock decided to answer in the same format in which he was asked, explaining what happened in English and signing at the same time. "No, I'm not deaf. I just have a hard time hearing certain sounds, and these hearing aids help me with that." He briefly pulled one off to show it off before replacing it. He smiled broadly when the boy who had asked the question did the same thing with his own aid.

"Of course he knows sign language," John muttered under his breath jealously.

"How does your leg work?" a little girl asked eagerly. Sherlock could tell she was one of the group who suffered from cancer, though he couldn't deduce which type.

"Well, there's nothing too fancy about it. It attaches to my stump and works almost like a normal leg does."

"But it doesn't have any toes!"

"I can walk and run without toes, believe it or not. I have another leg with a different bottom that does have toes, though."

"You have three legs?" another kid piped in.

"I suppose I do," he said, never having considered it himself.

"Cool!"

"How does it attach?" one of the older ones present questioned.

"That's the complicated part. I wear a sock with special rings on it, and the leg slides over those rings and creates an air-tight seal. To take it off, I have to push a button to release it."

"Can we see?" a few little voice asked. Sherlock hadn't considered that taking his leg off would be a part of this excursion when he agreed to it, but he couldn't very well say no to a bunch of sick kids.

"Sure," he offered, reaching for the valve on his ankle. With a slight hiss, the seal released and he slid the leg off. He heard a few muffled gasps and 'whoa's and he secretly grinned. Only young people would get so excited over something like this. He set the leg against his chair, then flexed and extended his knee a few times, showing that the stump could move on its own.

"Did it hurt?" another voice asked, this one belonging to a young girl about eight years old. Sherlock remembered the numb feeling from the epidural anesthesia, the strange sensations associated with many dressing changes, and the relentless ache that followed him after physiotherapy sessions, but at no point did he recall true excruciating pain. Of course, the blood clot had caused that, but that didn't count as pain associated with the amputation itself.

"Not really," he said honestly. "The doctors were so good at making the pain go away that I never really felt it at all."

"That's good," she squeaked. "They're doing mine in two days."

She was way too young to face that. Sherlock had barely handled it, and he'd been in his twenties. But he assured her, "It'll all be fine. Before you know it, you'll have a leg just like mine, maybe even two."

"I hope so. But mine'll be red," she declared.

"I'm sure you can have whatever color you want. A red leg would look quite snazzy," he quipped, making her giggle. The sound brought a joy to Sherlock the likes of which he'd never experienced before. If this little girl could still laugh like that mere days before losing her leg, Sherlock could never let despair prevail.

Her laughter reminded him of the days leading up to his own amputation, days he'd spent with Victor. They'd done more cackling than was strictly warranted for two men their age, but they hadn't cared. How could one think to restrict laughter when so many horrible things existed in the world? "Laughter is the best medicine," he'd heard people say all the time. Sherlock knew better than anyone how true that statement rang. In terms of effectiveness-to-enjoyment ratio, laughter certainly beat out chemo drugs any day.

After the session ended and all the children had their chance to speak up, Smith had them all thank Sherlock and John for their time. But Sherlock didn't feel that he needed to be thanked. If anything, he should be thanking them for enlightening him. He hung around for a bit and approached the girl who'd asked him if it hurt.

"Were you lying just to make us feel better?" she asked him up front.

"No," he said to her, kneeling down so he could be eye-to-eye. It hurt his bag leg to put pressure on it like this, but it was worth it to talk to this incredible girl like she was an equal. "I wouldn't lie to you."

"It really doesn't hurt?"

"Not like you think it does. It doesn't hurt so much here," he pointed to her knee, "as it does here," he moved his finger to her head. "It hurts to think about what it'll be like with only one leg. It's scary. Some days are hard, and some other days it feels like nothing ever happened. But it gets easier, I promise." She looked him in the eye and nodded her head firmly. He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Do you know what I did before my surgery?" he asked.

"What?"

"I let my friend paint my toenails," he said.

"But you're a boy!" she declared disbelievingly.

"So what?"

"Boys don't paint their nails," she informed him.

"Really? They don't?" She shook her head. "Then what was I thinking?"

"I don't know," she giggled. The sound made Sherlock feel high, so intoxicatingly joyful it was. "You were crazy."

"I suppose I was. But, would it be crazy if you did it?"

"No."

"Then you should."

"I don't want to," she said vehemently.

"Ok, that's fine. You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

"I want you to do it," she amended.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Why me?"

"Because you're special," she told him. "And I have a lot more questions to ask, so I don't want you to leave yet."

"Okay, I won't leave. You can ask me all the questions you want, but first I have to ask you one," Sherlock told her.

"What?"

"What color do you want?" Her face lit up joyously and she grabbed Sherlock's hand to tow him along. She showed him to a room with a cabinet already stocked with various colors of nail polish, more than Sherlock had ever seen in one place. She didn't even take the time to look over them all; she immediately singled out her color of choice and thrust the bottle into Sherlock's waiting hands.

He painted her toenails bright red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I read that ending, my cheeks cramp up from smiling too much. I hope you found it just as heart-warming as I did. Now for a little preview of my future projects:
> 
> I love the Sherlock fandom, but it is not the only one that holds my heart captive. I have three stories set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (one of which is a Game of Thrones crossover) sitting in my doc manager waiting to be posted. I apologize if you want nothing to do with those stories; I know I am taking on an entirely different audience by writing with those characters. But, since those are already written and ready to go, that gives me time to work on my next Sherlock story: the prequel to Sole Mates! (title TBD)
> 
> I purposefully referenced specific events and characters multiple times throughout Sole Mates. After reading, we all have a basic understanding of what Sherlock's life was like before chapter 1 picked up, but while writing I continuously outlined a more detailed backstory. And now I will be taking all those pieces of the past and stitching them together into what I hope resembles a fully-fledged story. I have no estimates on when it will begin posting, since I have to finish and edit the entire thing before I start releasing it, but I can promise it will happen eventually. If I'm taking too long, don't hesitate to pester me with requests to hurry the hell up and get it done so you can read more of this ridiculous AU. Thank you so much to everyone who read this craziness and shared their thoughts with me!


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